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Title: An Englishwoman in Angora - With illus., reproduced from the author's own sketches and photographs, and with a cartoon by L. Raven Hill
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                       AN ENGLISHWOMAN IN ANGORA



------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration:

  MISS GRACE ELLISON.
  The first British woman to visit Angora since the beginning of the
    Nationalist Movement. She has always stood for Anglo-Turkish
    friendship.
  Frontispiece
]


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                            AN  ENGLISHWOMAN
                       IN  ANGORA   ::   ::   By
                      GRACE ELLISON   ::   ::   ::
                ════════════════════════════════════════



          With 34 illustrations, reproduced from the Author’s
          own sketches and photographs, and with a cartoon by
                             L. Raven Hill



                       _LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.
                            PATERNOSTER ROW_


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                                   TO

                             MY DEAR MOTHER

                         AND TO MY LATE FATHER,

                          CAPT. JOHN ELLISON,

                IN LOVING MEMORY OF HIS BEAUTIFUL LIFE:

                HIS EVER COURAGEOUS DEFENCE OF JUSTICE,

                           HONOUR, AND TRUTH.



------------------------------------------------------------------------



                                FOREWORD

                       AN ENGLISHWOMAN IN ANGORA


AT the time of writing I am the only Englishwoman who has been in Angora
since the Nationalist movement began.

Others, moved by curiosity, have sought permission to visit the country
under its new _régime_, but Nationalist Turkey has bidden them
wait—until she is sure that her guests will write, or speak, the _truth_
about what they may see, and can be trusted to forget the prejudices
with which they would almost certainly arrive.

For myself, I have three times been welcomed to Turkey with open arms
_on account_ of my nationality. On this occasion I was still welcome,
but _in spite of_ my nationality—an ugly truth that my mind almost
refuses to accept.

To compare impressions from these visits one must first ask: “How could
such a change of attitude come to pass?”

Formerly Great Britain was _the_ country of all countries that “counted”
in Turkey. To be a “gentleman”—(they used the English word)—was the
Turks’ highest ambition. British stuffs were chosen in preference to
French, _not_ because they were finer or of greater value, but simply
because they were _British_. Our ideals, our policy, and, I must add,
our governesses, were almost regarded as sacred in Turkish eyes.

And now I am advised, for greater safety, to travel as an American! God
forbid! I stand by the old flag.

I would smile, could the tears be hidden, when I recall the police
officer who so solemnly enquired if _I was sure_ I was not an American.

“Perfectly sure,” I replied.

“How then,” said he, “has that impossibility—an Englishwoman in
Angora—become possible?”

“Your Government,” I answered, “has made it possible. As you have no one
else here from my country, I have given myself this mission.... An old
friend of the Turks, a woman who loves her own country! Can she not do
_something_ for that peace between us, which is a supreme necessity to
both? That is why I am here.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

I do not forget that Turks were our “enemies” in the war. But they came
back, beaten to the dust—and penitent. Then was the moment for us to
have made our own terms. In that mood Turkey would have
accepted—anything, but the _one thing_ we imposed on her—the Greeks at
Smyrna! That policy of sheer folly has transformed the veneration of her
people into fear and distrust, if not hate.

Unjustly and unreasonably as we have behaved towards our old ally, we
were not, indeed, alone in this mischievous exalting of Greek
aggressions. Dare we not now own our mistake? We are great enough, and
strong enough, to be generous, to mend our ways!

To-day, surely, it is the duty of English patriots to pour oil on the
troubled waters, to explain to Turkey what _can_ be explained, and to
paint our countrymen, at least, less “black” than they have been made to
seem by our rivals’ pen!

Lausanne Palace Hotel,

    Lausanne,

        _January, 1923_.


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                                CONTENTS


                                FOREWORD

                                                       PAGE
            An Englishwoman in Angora                    ix

            List of Illustrations                        xv


                               CHAPTER I

            On Board the _Pierre Loti_—Turkey’s Debt     17
              to Loti’s Magic Pen


                               CHAPTER II

            Turkey and Tolerance—A Friendship Wasted     22


                              CHAPTER III

            Malta: the Name I was to Hear Throughout     29
              Anatolia


                               CHAPTER IV

            Athens—“We Have Loved Helen; Must We         36
              Divorce Her?”


                               CHAPTER V

            Smyrna: a Picture of Desolation              43


                               CHAPTER VI

            British Chivalry!—Brave Women a              54
              Nuisance!


                              CHAPTER VII

            Smyrna—God’s Work—The Exquisite              60
              Sunset—Man’s Work—War


                              CHAPTER VIII

            Emotions and Impressions—“On the             71
              Way”—Nowhere to House the Poor People


                               CHAPTER IX

            More Impressions-“Sitting Amidst an Army     79
              of Supposed Savage Fanatics, Debating
              the Greatness of God”


                               CHAPTER X

            A Journey on Foot—A Country Made by God,     85
              untouched by Man


                               CHAPTER XI

            A Public Meeting at Ouchak—Hospitality—A     94
              Sacred Rite


                              CHAPTER XII

            A Luggage Train—The Worst Stage of My       104
              Whole Journey


                              CHAPTER XIII

            A Third-Class Compartment—A Frenchman       114
              Amongst the Ruins


                              CHAPTER XIV

            In the “Train de Luxe”—The Supreme Good     122
              Fellowship of English
              Laughter—Journeying Towards the Cradle
              of New Turkey


                               CHAPTER XV

            Angora I.—Entering a “Brotherhood”—An       132
              Atmosphere of Camaraderie


                              CHAPTER XVI

            Angora II.—At the Home of My Kind and       141
              Courteous Host


                              CHAPTER XVII

            Angora III.—The Marvellous Atmosphere of    147
              a Great Birth


                             CHAPTER XVIII

            The Ghazi Mustapha Kemal Pasha—The          159
              Greatest Man in Turkey To-day


                              CHAPTER XIX

            An Interview with the Ghazi Mustapha        174
              Kemal Pasha


                               CHAPTER XX

            Mustapha Kemal Pasha—The Man Who is         179
              Master of His Fate


                              CHAPTER XXI

            A Turkish Cabinet—The Three Best-Known      192
              Ministers—A Cabinet of Young Men


                              CHAPTER XXII

            Turkish Cabinet—The Less-known Ministers    198
              of the Sovereign State


                             CHAPTER XXIII

            The Foreign Colony in Angora—A Group of     202
              Foreign Personalities


                              CHAPTER XXIV

            Halidé Edib Hanoum, Author and Patriot—A    205
              Woman Dowered with the All-Conquering
              Gifts of the Truly Brave


                              CHAPTER XXV

            Hospitals—Schools—Education and the         215
              Nationalist Writers—The Days Pass, but
              There is Still Much to Be Done and
              Seen


                              CHAPTER XXVI

            Last Days in Angora: Excursions,            226
              Conversations, Picnics—HAÏDAR Bey’s
              Party


                             CHAPTER XXVII

            Rome, the Eternal City—A Visit to the       239
              Catholics in Angora


                             CHAPTER XXVIII

            Three Diplomats at Rome—The Guardianship    249
              of the Holy Tomb


                              CHAPTER XXIX

            _En Route_ for Constantinople—A Night at    254
              Bilidjik Under the Frost-Laden Skies


                              CHAPTER XXX

            From Bilidjik to Broussa by Yaili—After     259
              the day’s Roughening Experiences one
              can Sleep whatever the Accommodation


                              CHAPTER XXXI

            A Few Days in Broussa—The True Islam        273
              Atmosphere


                             CHAPTER XXXII

            Constantinople No Longer the Capital—The    285
              Heart and Spirit of Turkey are in
              Angora


                             CHAPTER XXXIII

            Lausanne Palace Hotel—The Home of           298
              Turkey, France, and Japan—“Every
              Possible Phase of Complete
              Internationalism”


                             CHAPTER XXXIV

            Turkey and the League of Nations—The        313
              Parliament of Nations Must Be Truly
              Impartial and International


                              CHAPTER XXXV

            The Future—Above All, a Lasting Peace       318

            Index                                       321


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


            Miss Grace Ellison                       _Frontispiece_

            Burnt Quarter in the French Part of          48
              Smyrna near the Quay

            Lord Curzon: “Turkey for the Turks,          64
              indeed!”

            In an Ox Wagon                               89

            From a Turk’s Back                          104

            H.M. The Kaliph of Islam                    112

            A Battle Royal with my Tangled, Dusty       122
              Hair

            A Bottle of Evian—Under the Table           123

            General Moueddine Pasha, Military           128
              Instructor of Mustapha Kemal Pasha

            The Market-place at Angora                  136

            “The carriages swing from angle to          137
              angle”

            Grand National Assembly at Angora           144

            “There is so much to sketch from our        145
              front door”

            The Ghazi Mustapha Kemal Pasha,             160
              President of the Grand National
              Assembly, Angora

            On the wall of Mustapha Kemal Pasha’s       164
              study the Sultan Osman looks down on
              Mustapha Kemal Pasha

            The Ante-room at Tchan-Kaya                 165

            Mustapha Kemal Pasha’s Sitting-room         168

            Mustapha Kemal Pasha Walking in the         171
              Grounds of Tchan-Kaya

            General Ismet Pasha, Minister for           176
              Foreign Affairs

            Rauf Bey, Prime Minister                    192

            Halidé Hanoum, the well-known writer,       208
              patriot, and feminist leader

            Dr. Adnan Bey, High Commissioner for        208
              Constantinople

            Agha Aglou Ahmed Bey, Director of the       224
              Angora Press

            A Luncheon Party at the Ottoman Bank,       240
              Angora

            The Yaili with Drawn Curtains               255

            Broussa                                     256

            “He has the right to say, ‘Look at me’”     261

            The Tomb of the Sultan Osman at Broussa     272

            General Refet Pasha and Colonel Mougin      288
              in Constantinople

            Lausanne Palace Hotel                       304


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                       An Englishwoman in Angora



                               CHAPTER I

      ON BOARD THE “PIERRE LOTI”—TURKEY’S DEBT TO LOTI’S MAGIC PEN


OVER a sea as smooth as ice, the sun shining brightly most of the way,
the Messageries Maritimes steamer _Pierre Loti_ is carrying us to
Smyrna. Ten years ago, to a beaten Turkey (unable, it was supposed, to
face an enemy for years to come), I had taken the same trip. And now,
despite the prophets, I am returning to a victorious people; doubly
victorious, since all the odds were against them.

“That is the kind of story I love,” I remarked to the sympathetic
captain and his daughter, with whom I generally lunched as guest in
their own cabin. They, indeed, were particularly interested in my
adventure, for they knew the Near East well, and this was to be their
last visit. Because he had just reached the age limit of those who ‘go
down to the sea in ships,’ though it was only when you caught the word
‘papa’ upon his daughter’s lips that anyone would suspect the fact.

So they are blessed who marry young!

“It seems strange,” I told him one morning, “to be here—on board the
_Pierre Loti_, and surely a presage of good luck, since his books have
done so much to increase and widen my inborn sympathies with the East.”

Still more strange it proved; since the captain himself had named the
ship for his admiration of the great French writer and in memory of
personal friendship between them. A rare literary association for a
steamer once in the service of the Czars. Wherefore, also, I found the
master’s works in the ship’s library, and could renew acquaintance with
many an old favourite: “Ramuntcho,” “Matelot,” “Ispahan,” “Les Pêcheurs
d’Islande” and the “Désenchantées.”

The captain told me of his visit to Rochefort, and _I_ told _him_ how
Antoine went to the same house for final instructions upon the staging
of “Ramuntcho,” which, however, did not prove a success. How, indeed,
could anyone think of dramatising Pierre Loti, whether in prose or
verse? He gives us neither psychology nor dramatic incident. I can only
suppose that Antoine permitted them to be produced—to show once for all
that the thing could not be done; a hard lesson for the master!

“Among Loti’s collection of priceless treasures, rifled from every
corner of the East, Antoine sought in vain for somewhere to place his
hat! Finally, he hooked it on to an Eastern idol, and their talk began.
In a few moments, however, there was a pause, for the astonished
dramatist caught sight of the offending headgear suspended, as he
supposed, in mid-air. However, a closer look revealed that it was
resting upon a thin stream of water. The Eastern idol was a fountain!”

The captain expressed his surprise that I should not only be so familiar
with Loti’s work, but that I could really know anything intimately of
his private life, “seeing how the Frenchman disliked my own country.”

“My dear sir,” I replied, “if we are to find our friends to-day only
among those who love England, we should be limited indeed. You and your
charming daughter, _par exemple_, are you precisely admirers of the
British Government?...

“To me, Art is first, and the rest—nowhere! I care not whether the
genius first saw daylight in Paris, in New York, or in Timbuctoo. I have
more friends out of England than in England. Like Kipling’s cat, ‘all
places are alike to me.’ I only ask that your land be warm; and with all
peoples who do not rob me I am ready and eager to be good friends. To
‘guard the frontiers’ in Art would be to bring back the Dark Ages. The
most sincere love of one’s own country should never teach one to be
disdainful of _les autres_.”

“You are going to Nationalist Turkey,” he replied, “you will find
yourself right up against Chauvinism all the time.”

“I don’t believe it. Forgive me, I really think you exaggerate. And
besides—with my strong sympathies for the Turks!—I have always found
Orientals the most broad-minded men.”

Then I brought back the talk to Pierre Loti. “Why do you say that he
dislikes England so much?” I asked. “He _does_ object to golf near the
Pyramids; he _is_ a little sarcastic about ‘Messrs. Thos. Cook & Co.,
Egypt, Ltd.,’ forgetting what it means to travel without them; he
dislikes our Government for its pro-Greek policy and its injustice
towards the Turks. As an Englishwoman I agree. And, like him, too, I
regard New York as the nearest earthly approach to hell! We certainly do
not hate America; only its noise, its materialism, and its advertising.

“I knew Pierre Loti best, perhaps, at his charming Basque home in
Hendaye—thanks to my friendship with his heroines, Melek and Zeyneb. I
know, at one time, he resented what seemed to him our Edward VII.’s
‘interference’ in French affairs. But that master of diplomats never
gave his advice unasked; and, when he was told of the great Frenchman’s
hostility, Pierre Loti was promptly invited to Windsor, and they became
the best of friends. Would he were with us now, that he might but talk
with the Ministers of both nations!

“After Windsor, Loti, I’m sure, would have spared his sarcasm. ‘There is
one thing left now,’ he once declared. ‘We must appeal to H.M. Edward
VII. _He_ only can do what he likes in France!’ The French Admiralty had
just refused him permission to carry away from one of their ships the
table on which he had written the ‘Désenchantées.’”

The captain, it seemed, was ready to waive this point.

“But I do not consider,” he resumed, “that Loti’s books are a true
picture of Turkey as she is.”

“They would not, indeed, suit his arch-enemy Messrs. Cook,” I replied;
“as Turner painted, he wrote, for those who have eyes to see. Tell him
you never saw _his_ Turkey, and he would reply: ‘Don’t you wish you
could?’...

“Had Loti himself been English, he would, naturally, have reached a
larger public among us. The warmth of his colouring is too often lost in
translation. As a schoolgirl I learnt by heart the wonderful Preface to
his “Ispahan”: ‘_Qui vent venir avec moi voir les roses d’Ispahan_,’ and
I have dreamt of those roses ever since.”

The captain then spoke of the avenue at Constantinople which bears his
name.

“A charming remembrance,” I replied, “but he needs no such ‘rosemary.’
Do we realise, I wonder, what French influence in the Near East owes to
his supreme art. In England, except for a small minority, the word
Turkey only means a vision of fair houris, veiled in the mysteries of
the past, the great ‘Red’ Sultan, and massacres in Armenia. To France it
means Aziadé, the Green Mosque at Brousse, Djénane, and the Fantômes
d’Orient. Public opinion, to-day, can be ‘manufactured’ as easily as
butter and cheese; but the imaginations once stirred by the magician’s
pen will not yield so easily to the last Brew of Hate. France is not
going to lose her dream of the East woven from Loti’s pen. A debt of
gratitude neither she, nor Turkey itself, can ever pay.”

To travel by this steamer, bearing the name of a writer one loves so
well, brings unceasing delight. Your menu-card, the life-belts on deck,
even the towels, all bear a name to fill the mind with memory of
beautiful things. As my eyes fell on the _Pierre Loti’s_ lifeboat,
swinging on its davits, I recalled the “Pêcheurs d’Islande,” with its
tragic close: “and he never returned!” All the sorrow, the suffering,
and the heart-ache; the useless watching, waiting, and longing—this, for
the women, is War!

Are we, indeed, to begin _that_ all over again? For a “Greater Greece”
than the Greeks themselves can sustain?

If _all_ women who have suffered (and who has not?) would march to
Westminster to protest, would any hear and pause? Can we fight a Press
in the service of profiteers, bolstering up the Government, blocking the
public view?

Are we not, after all, mere “pawns” of a Destiny that none can avert?

                  *       *       *       *       *

Pierre Loti’s long and interesting life is now very quickly drawing to
its close. He has written his last words—a defence of his beloved Turks.


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                               CHAPTER II

                TURKEY AND TOLERANCE—A FRIENDSHIP WASTED


MY supreme interest in Turkey among the Moslem nations, arose from
influences, or instincts, I cannot now with any certainty determine. I
suspect, however, it was in part reaction against the injustice of
Gladstone—the idol of my father’s youth, until the betrayal of his hero
Gordon—and in part indignation with those who called the Koran an
“accursed book.” _My_ religion is the universal tolerance I expect for
my own, and I can feel only the most profound admiration for the Great
Prophet of Islam, whose fine personality has left so benign an influence
throughout the East, and for his “Bible,” with its noble study of our
own Christ. Carlyle, you will remember, pays glowing tribute to this
“Prophet Hero!”

So I devoured every book that I could lay hands on about these
interesting peoples; fought for introductions to anyone who could talk
of them, from book-knowledge or personal acquaintance; studied
medicine—that their women might suffer less.

It was in 1906 that I first met Pierre Loti’s “disenchanted” heroines,
Zeyneb and Melek; and we soon became the closest friends. The tale of
their daring, but unpractical, flight had stirred my imagination. Their
father was one of Abdul Hamid’s Ministers, and two or three times during
my visit they were almost kidnapped by order of the Sultan. On one
occasion it was, indeed, only a miracle which disclosed the plot that
was to have carried them off (by motor from Nice to Marseilles, thence
back by boat to Constantinople) to the punishment awaiting them.

For hours they held me spellbound by their vivid descriptions of harem
life, particularly the Sultan’s, and of the “Terror” under Abdul Hamid.
With this clever monster at the helm, the Turks suffered a hundred times
more than the Christians. Whole regiments of Albanians ceased to exist;
whole companies went off to Yemen and were forgotten; Ministers died
suddenly, and private families disappeared wholesale. Yet they must be
thrown out of Europe, “bag and baggage,” because, in a minor degree,
Christian Armenians, too, bled under Abdul Hamid!

After the departure of the two Hanoums (Turkish ladies), their father
died suddenly. And though, when in Constantinople, I did my best to see
and console their widowed mother, she persisted in regarding me as one
of those _giaours_ who had stolen away her daughters! And would listen
to no defence or explanation.

It was then that I heard much of the coming Revolution: when and where
“meetings” had taken place, who were members of the “secret societies,”
which of their friends in prison would be liberated. In 1908, the Day of
Deliverance suddenly came, to the astonishment of the whole world, and
I, too, rejoiced, as though my own country were now set free!

I was, luckily, again in Constantinople for those great days. I saw the
hideous tyrant of a few years ago driven through the streets of Pera; I
was present at the opening of Parliament; introduced to the Sultan Abdul
Hamid and his Grand Vizier Kiamil Pasha.

It was the Vizier’s charming daughter who soon became my dearest friend,
and hostess for two subsequent visits. Once she spoke of me to Abdul
Hamid’s successor, Mohammed V., as her “English sister” (her favourite
term of endearment), and the Sultan replied: “I did not know Kiamil
Pasha had any English children.” Poor man, he had a Turkish family of a
score!

It was Hamid’s fall that first revealed to me how much Turkey loved
England, what she was ready to give for British friendship. I had
witnessed the arrival of our Ambassador, the late Sir G. Lowther, and
his triumphant entry to Constantinople, when the horses were taken out
of his carriage and he was drawn by Turks to the Embassy. As Abdul Hamid
had compromised the nation by friendship with Germans, young Turkey
threw herself at the feet of Great Britain.

Why could we not respond? Alas, our Ambassador and his French colleague,
M. Constant, would openly express their preference for the despotic
Abdul Hamid. And what was said, no doubt with no serious thought of
offence, reached the ears of the young Turks and stung their pride:
“People who visit Constantinople may be divided into two classes: those
who like dirt and squalor” (of whom I was one), “and those who do not!”

It was inevitable that the Germans should make _their_ profit from _our_
discourtesy and blind contempt. We ought, from the first, to have known
that she would send, as indeed she did, one of her finest diplomats to
Constantinople. Marshall von Bieberstein, and his “retriever,” Dr. W——
of the _Frankfurter Zeitung_ lost no opportunity of conciliating the
young Turks, to what end we might, surely, have foreseen!

After the Balkan war, I paid a visit to vanquished Turkey; this time as
a guest of my “Turkish sister” in Stamboul, whose father had been,
meanwhile, banished to Cyprus, where he died. Under the circumstances I
could not (for fear of further compromising my friends with the
Government) see much of our Ambassador, Sir Louis Mallet, though I met
him twice, and found him a charming man.

To all my appeals, at the Embassy and elsewhere, for British friendship
and help to put Turkey on her feet again, I met the same foolish,
“parrot” reply: “We cannot sacrifice Russia!” Nevertheless, when I
returned to London, and published “An Englishwoman in a Turkish Harem”
(the diary record of private friendships, widely circulated in the
East), we, the friends of Turkey, determined to defy the Government, and
formed an Ottoman Society for that purpose.

When the war broke out I had just reached Berlin, once more _en route_
for Turkey, Asia Minor, and afterwards Persia and India.

It is obvious that the world-tragedy had even a sharper sting for those
of us who were bidden to hate our life-long “best friends” among the
enemy peoples. Often enough, moreover, the individual “foe” (as was the
case with my Turkish “sister”) could not throw off the heart’s
allegiance to England merely because “it was war.”

Can we, indeed, honestly blame the young Turks? In the first place, they
did not choose their own path. One man, Enver Pasha, joined Germany
_against_ the wishes of a whole nation. As _one_ man, Mr. Lloyd George,
would once have drawn the most constitutional of all peoples to fight
the Turks, had not General Harington, luckily for them and us, disobeyed
his command!

Besides, we did _nothing_ to preserve our friendship with Turkey. Years
of indifference, and most impolitic scoffings at real reforming
enthusiasm, were followed, at the eleventh hour, by total neglect of any
conciliating diplomacy, which could even then have kept Turkey out of
the war, and shortened it by two years.

For instance, on the outbreak of war with Germany, “without notice,
without the most banal of the forms of courtesy, on the very day when
the Turkish flag should have been hoisted over the ships handed over to
the Ottoman Commission, which had come to England to take charge of
them, the dreadnoughts were seized by Great Britain and no offer was
made by the British Government to refund, at least, the price of the two
ships....” So wrote the late Grand Vizier Hakki Pasha; and one could
mention many other, similar, senseless pin-pricks, which may inflame
such people almost more than insults of greater import.

During the war my friendship for Turkey proved a serious handicap in
hospital work. Anyone jealous of what privileges were by chance accorded
to me would hand over a few choice tit-bits—that grew in passing—to the
secret police. The French, unless in a fit of really inevitable
war-depression, paid scant heed to such reports. The Americans, however,
easily took alarm. One, I remember, actually spoke to me about the
matter with a terror only equalled, in my experience, by that of the
Cabinet Minister’s brother who once asked me: “How I could do anything
so foolish as to live in a harem?”

It was a poor compliment to one of Turkey’s greatest statesmen, and to
my hostess, his distinguished daughter.

But when I found that Roget’s “Thesaurus” gives as synonym for a harem,
“a house of ill fame,” I understood!

                  *       *       *       *       *

Turkey, however, was crushed, defeated and, at Sèvres, humiliated. Were
we not courting disaster by such unjust terms? If we remove the foot
holding them down—but ever so slightly—will they rebound and strike?

“I cannot understand,” I said to one of their delegates, “how a Turk
could be found to sign such a Treaty.” For always, with all their
faults, I had known them proud.

“Had we not signed,” he answered, “the Greeks would have entered
Constantinople, and God knows when we could have driven them out. What
does it matter, the Treaty will not be ratified.”

To keep out the Greeks, to save bloodshed! Maybe he was right.

“At least, we are set free from Germany,” they said; and there is little
we could not have asked then for such security.

They would have allowed Great Britain any privileges, any concessions,
all sovereign rights, if only we had not permitted the occupation of
Smyrna! When the Dutch _pasteur_, M. Lebouvier, sent the _Times_ a full
description of all the hideous bloodshed, the saturnalian orgies, and
the riot with which the Greeks celebrated their triumphal entry, it was
_suppressed_—and Englishmen do not know!

Consternation, despair, and anger were the order of the day. Those
hitherto most apologetic for the part played by Turkey in the war, were
now ready to glory in what they had done. A million and a half Turks
enslaved by 300,000 “servant” Greeks! Can such things be?

In Constantinople a mass meeting of 250,000 people was held at the
Byzantine Hippodrome, flags and banners were draped in black, women
sobbed as at a funeral. They were _mourning_, indeed, for the city they
were afterwards accused of having burned!

By what deplorable influence were we thus moved to attempt what would
practically have meant the extermination of Turkey? The magic name of
Venizelos is not enough! Again and again, the friends of Turkey have
asked why? But we do not know whether British action was deliberate or
the result of an incredibly big blunder!

M. Kemal Pasha’s great victory changed the face of affairs. Few in
England had seemed to care what happened to this band of “rebels”; only
a month before his victory, even our Intelligence Officers thought he
would easily be beaten by the Greeks. Few had even heard of his three
and a half years exile in the mountains!

Meanwhile, at home, we paid little heed, and scant courtesy, to the
three Ambassadors from Angora, who came to negotiate peace. Békir Sami
Bey’s confidential conversations with the ex-Prime Minister about the
Soviet Government were handed on to M. Krassine. Youssouf Kemal Bey,
indeed, obtained a hearing, but nothing was done. Fethi Bey (the
Minister of the Interior, sent as a last resource) was told, and that
was true, that Lord Curzon was seriously ill, but that no one “counted”
in England except Mr. Lloyd George. Naturally, he asked the Premier for
an audience, which was “promised,” but never given!

_Incivility does not pay._ It is too expensive a luxury for the greatest
of nations. This level-headed Turk, accepting such treatment with all
the dignity of his race, found many _other_ things to praise in this
country. “The English,” he said, “understand only _one_ form of
propaganda—the sword!” But of our institutions, our Parliament, our
clubs, and the marvellous acting of Miss Sybil Thorndike in “Jane
Clegg,” he said much, and nothing but praise, in Angora!

As a woman who has received the greatest kindness and courtesy from the
Turks, my resentment, on behalf of Fethi Bey, was expressed with
unmeasured indignation. His mission was _not_ taken seriously; the
Government dared to show him the cold shoulder!

For his part, most graciously he suggested that I should come over to
Angora myself, to the cradle of the Nationalist movement, and see the
hero of the Nationalists.

But for his ever-ready assistance it would have been useless to have
made the attempt. When, in Angora, he renewed his apologies for all the
discomfort I had endured, but I told him the journey itself had been a
privilege, for it enabled me to see with my own eyes what his people had
been driven to endure.

No, I could never have forgiven myself if, in a moment of weakness, I
had been discouraged by the chivalry of the British officials and
allowed them to persuade me to stay at home.


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER III

           MALTA: THE NAME I WAS TO HEAR THROUGHOUT ANATOLIA


OUR first stopping-place was Malta, the name I was destined to hear from
one end of Anatolia to the other.

Was it not of Malta that Angora was born; and since “the trouble” in the
East, Malta has been turned into a universal dumping-ground for
officers’ wives and refugees. Whenever M. Kemal Pasha lifts his little
finger, or Rauf Bey opens his mouth, the women and children are bundled
off to Malta. They return, indeed, on any excuse, at the first
opportunity (as why should they not?), until a panic-stricken Government
again sends them to exile. One lady with us had done the trip in this
way four times!

Constantinople, without our women, makes one wonder if it were so wise
as it appears, thus to play for safety! After all, cannot the
Englishwoman endure what the Russian, Greek and Armenian are left to put
up with? If the husband is in danger, should not his wife be with him?
“We want to ‘protect’ our women,” I had been told, and there is no finer
ideal than chivalry. But, after Constantinople, I would suggest that we
women also “want to protect our men!”

Softening, perhaps, the frankness for which my “French” education has
been so often held responsible, I would only say: “There are alluring
distractions!”

And in marriage I pin my faith upon the Italian proverb: “Keep to the
women and cows of your own country.”

The utter destitution of so many members of the old Russian aristocracy,
has not deprived its women of their temperamental charm. It has provided
them with an occasion (genuine enough, God knows) for tears no British
youth can resist, unmoved as he will remain under the fiercest
shell-fire.

Yet one Englishman told me his Russian wife had taken every penny he
possessed, and vanished—he knew not where. Another “fears it is only a
matter of time. His ‘noble’ wife cannot be expected to put up with
Clapham, and when something better turns up, he will be discarded.” One
married “a sweet, soft voice” out of sheer loneliness; and another,
foolish and rich, clothed in priceless ermine the lady he met “at a
bar!” There is no need to dwell on other, less honourable,
“consequences” of such “casual” meetings.

At every corner in Constantinople the “bar” invites the busy and the
brave to cocktails or a whisky, an example we have given the “despised”
Turk, who had the wisdom to make Angora “dry.” Here, too, is the best of
chances for pro-Greek propaganda, as our men meet no “Turkish” women,
who are “really” safe in the bosom of their families. One is tempted,
almost, to hope that for them the day of “freedom” may be postponed.

Facing this ugly side of what an “Army of Occupation” must always
entail, does the Englishwoman who absolutely refused to “leave” need to
stand on her defence? “Vanity Fair,” moreover, may serve to remind us
that there were English women near Waterloo; and do our present
generation require such careful wrapping in cotton-wool, while they are,
nevertheless, too often left unprotected in the drab, hum-drum life of a
modern “business” world.

It is remarkable, again, to reflect that every Turk one meets, who
really “counts for something” in Angora, is a “Malta” man. If M. Kemal
Pasha believed in decorations, surely a special medal would have been
devised for those who had “visited” Malta.

As a prison, it is agreeable enough, though the climate strikes one as
enervating. The sun shines, even brightly, for the greater part of the
year, and sunshine softens the captive’s lot! Had I never visited the
island I should have soon learnt to know “the sights,” for in so many
homes of Angora, Maltese picture postcards are displayed, almost like
holy relics: Valetta, the “Chapel of Bones” (a barbaric idea), the
Mahommedan cemetery, the cathedral, and the landing-stage. Everywhere,
too, are the fair ladies of Malta, whose head-dresses closely resemble
the Turkish tcharchaff.

The Angelus had sounded as I first entered the cathedral, to find myself
amidst long rows of black-veiled women, reverently kneeling on the cold
inlaid-marble floor, their heads bent in prayer, their fingers counting
the beads as they recited their rosaries. The native type is
dark-skinned, almost Mongolian, but they all speak English. For are they
not British subjects, paid in British money, and entitled to our
protection? There was talk, indeed, of extending the cover of
“Nationalism” to them also; but, personally, I still felt everywhere,
and all the time, that calming atmosphere of order, happiness, and
prosperity that is brought by the British flag.

How is it, then, that we have so consistently failed to quiet the
Turkish storms? Of course, every one of the “powers” has been involved,
each playing for its own hand, striving to end or prolong the war in its
own interests.

It is well known that the Turk himself has above all committed one
crime—he has kept Constantinople!

Bent on a policy of peace (!) we undertook to disarm Turkey; but the
mission despatched to Anatolia for this purpose could, or would, not
accomplish its task. Then in May, 1919, despite the Mudros Armistice, we
allowed the Greeks to occupy Smyrna! In March of the following year,
came the English _coup d’état_!

The highest personalities—generals, important officials, anyone
suspected of sympathy with the Nationalists—were arrested, placed in the
hold of a man-of-war, for internment at Malta. All were taken on mere
suspicion, thrust into prison without trial!

Yet the _naïveté_ of the whole proceeding is almost _more_ puzzling than
its high-handed injustice! These dangerous men (!), supposed to be
plotting against Great Britain, are all huddled together, and left to
their own devices, for two years—and then released! Were we afraid? Did
we repent? Will Government never _pursue_ one policy to its logical
conclusion?

I could but “wonder about” these things as I knelt in prayer. Clouds of
incense have filled the cathedral, the Blessed Sacrament is safely
returned to the tabernacle, the huge candles are extinguished, and the
veiled ladies are reverently leaving the dimly-lighted church. Cannot
faith bring peace?

“There must be peace.” I, who have faith in the spoken word, will
declare it, everywhere and all the time, and will count him traitor who
utters a word to the contrary. But I will tell them in Angora that “I am
sorry for” Malta!

                  *       *       *       *       *

Fethi Bey, Minister of the Interior, carries his comfortable Turkish
philosophy to the last extreme. Whatever happens, he will say that “It
might have been worse.” In Malta, he acknowledged that he would have
preferred greater comfort, but, then, “he _might_ have been much more
uncomfortable!” In any case, he seized upon the chance to learn English,
and learnt it remarkably well. It is best, he believes, to understand an
enemy; and, to that end, you must learn his language. Of Mr. Lloyd
George, he declared that “Turkey owes him a debt of gratitude we can
never repay.... But for the occupation of Smyrna, and the Malta _coup
d’état_, there would have been no Nationalists. But for your Prime
Minister we might all of us have been vassals. Indeed, we owe him a
great deal.”

When I asked him what to expect in Angora, he warned me that “I must not
look for the luxuries of the Savoy.”

“Well, I can leave our jazz bands without one pang,” I replied.

“But you may find worse things in Angora than Jazz bands.”

Men like Fethi Bey, ready to meet all emergencies without complaint,
make the right material to face the problem of Reconstruction, in a
country ruined from end to end; and what a comfort it is to meet a man
without a grievance!

When I attempted to sympathise with him for having to ride, because no
motor could take these snow-blocked roads, he declared that “exercise
would do him good.” When his horse stumbled, “it might have been worse.”

Yet, on _my_ account, he apologised again and again for the condition of
Angora; and I could only compare his humorous comparison with the Savoy,
to Dr. Réchad’s strange attempt at consolation: “You certainly won’t
need any evening dresses.”

It is, no doubt, the gift for always making the best of a bad bargain,
that works for peace in the Turkish home. Your husband is not perfect,
but “he might be worse”; the food is bad, but there might not be any; if
the rooms are not clean, “we have known dirtier.” It is an
“accommodating” point of view!

There is a story by Nasreddin Hodja, the great Turkish wit, which
happily illustrates this racial characteristic. The Anatolian lived in
constant terror of a vociferous wife, though no doubt he often reflected
that there were worse women in the world. One day, however, someone told
him that she had fallen into the river, and was being carried away by
the tide. “Don’t worry,” said he, with a stoic’s calm, “she will go
against it. She always does.”

On another occasion, this man of wit had carried a basket of figs to the
lame Timur, on an official visit of respect. Timur amused himself by
throwing the fruit in the Hodja’s face; but at each blow he cried out:
“Allah is Great.” When asked why he so often praised God, he answered:
“My wife wanted me to bring you apples.” Since Timur was privileged, if
it pleased him, to strike the guest, he “thanked God” that he had chosen
_the smaller_ and lighter fruit.

As for my own mission in Malta, I had really come to buy a British
flag!, as Messrs. Cook’s manager at Naples had supplied “everything” but
just that.

For years I have never travelled without a Union Jack. The idea of
undertaking so long and dangerous a journey without it, filled me with
strange foreboding. Everywhere on the Front I had my “flag.” In a state
of coma at the military hospital, the nuns were in great distress
because I had expressed a wish to be buried in the flag, which, being
under my pillow, was nowhere to be found! Naturally, in Paris I had
foreseen my need. But the registered trunk, booked to Rome, had fallen
on evil days, and there will be no luck for the “thief,” who is probably
polishing his boots with my sacred relic!

At first, I seemed unable to escape the lace-makers of Malta; and when,
following the direction of a naval officer, I found myself at last in a
real “Harrod’s Store,” my luck, also, was still out. At the Army and
Navy, the managing director declared they had “no sale for Union
Jacks.”... Each man possessed his own. He dared not sell me the firm’s
flag, for an order to hoist it might be given at any moment; and, if he
failed to obey, he would very likely be driven out of the island!

As a last resource, I drove to a man said to have “flags for hire.” By
this time I was too frenzied with disappointment to conceal my
eagerness, and they promised me one for £7! Luckily enough, excitement
prompted me to unfurl my treasure then and there, to find myself gazing,
in mute astonishment, upon the Stars and Stripes! “Isn’t it the same
thing?” cried the impostor, as I flung myself out of the shop.

But time and tide wait for no woman, and I must silence my
superstitions, to join the _Pierre Loti_ once more. Taking a last look
on the fortifications of Malta, my thoughts turned to the imprisoned
Turks, and my heart was filled with shame.

One day, perhaps, the Turks may hold Malta sacred, for assuredly the
cream of her people were gathered there. One might almost have thought
that such men as Prince Said Halim (late Grand Vizier), Rauf Bey, Fethi
Bey, Hussein Djahid, and my admirable Angora guide,) Vely-Nedjdat, had
been carefully selected to keep each other company.

Mrs. Stan-Harding once said of her eight and a half months in a Soviet
prison: “At least I had this advantage, I met the best people in
Russia.” As her hearers seemed puzzled by such a statement, she added,
“They were all, naturally, in prison!”

I must tell them, in Angora, that England, at least, has always honestly
tried to put right her own wrong-doings, and one day (may it be soon!)
she will “redeem” herself to them also.

Mr. H. G. Wells somewhere describes the strange, great love we often
feel for those we have deeply wronged—the wife, the friend, the enemy.
May it not, at the long last, be so “after the war?”

Who knows if, indeed, this be not the dark hour before the dawn, of our
nation’s friendships—with those we have been led to hate?


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                               CHAPTER IV

           ATHENS—“WE HAVE LOVED HELEN; MUST WE DIVORCE HER?”


IF only it were always calm, how delightful it would be to travel by
sea!

FROM Malta to Athens, indeed, is not a long run; but when every moment
you are tossed from side to side, at the mercy of all the winds in
heaven, most things have a disagreeable look. As we approached the brown
and arid coast of this historic peninsula, I thought how unjust it seems
to have driven the Ottoman Greeks out of fertile Turkey to a fatherland
that cannot feed them. You cannot obtain blood from a stone, nor
fruitful crops from an unfertile soil. What is Greece to do for these
poor people, who cannot all turn merchants or moneylenders?

Before landing at Piræus, with my Italian escort, I took the precaution
to investigate the rate of exchange—250 drachmas to the £1 sterling.

“It is strange,” said I, “that we have none of this inconvenience in
Turkey. There one always gets a fair ‘exchange,’ and no worry.”

The steamer slows down to anchor, and on all sides we are hustled by
modern Shylocks. “Two hundred and fifty drachmas for a pound,” I asked,
“how many for five shillings?” And the Greek answered: “Fifteen.” “Come
and listen to this Greek arithmetic,” I called in Italian; but the man
understood me, and let out a hearty laugh. Though I turned from him,
without malice, he promptly raised his price from fifteen to forty-five
(!), and in the end I bought drachmas enough to take us ashore, hoping
for better terms on land.

I shall never forget that day at Piræus—heat and dust, flies and
refugees. Could a more terrible combination be imagined? All along the
quays lay these wretched folk, many of them fast asleep, with armies of
flies crawling over them. If by chance one stumbled over a dusky body,
which it was not easy to distinguish from the soil, a cloud of flies
rose to smite you in the face—the most fatal of disease-carriers! The
brown-faced women, dirtier even than the Neopolitans, now crowded round
us, offering cakes and sweets from which they were every moment obliged
to brush off thick coatings of flies, that once more struck one in the
face or settled over my shoulders.

My Italian escort had, meanwhile, kindly procured a newspaper to act as
fan, and now, hurriedly brushing away these horrible pests, he took a
silk handkerchief out of his pocket to cover my neck. “What a
magnificent husband you will make for someone,” I said, smiling with
gratitude; and he blushed with all the charm of his twenty-one years.

In another moment my eye fell on the hard brown faces and big “Jewish”
noses of the moneylenders, forcing a smile as they call on you to “buy.”
They have very much the same expression as Southern Italians; keeping
one eye, it would almost seem, to make a pleasant impression on possible
purchasers, while the other betrays the keen and swift reckoning of
profits to the uttermost farthing.

Seated behind little tables topped with boxes of glass, they are eagerly
displaying their filthy paper money; haggling, arguing, smiling, and
cheating you in one breath! Surely no type of humanity could carry us
further from the heroes of our schoolday imaginings!

Wearied with fly-dodging, in fact, I had scant energy left for a “good
bargain,” over this “paper filth” for honest English sterling.

Sympathy now prompted me to ask the Italian Whether his eyes were not in
pain; and, by the power of auto-suggestion, the inquiry caused my own to
ache as they had never ached before. Before we landed the captain had
given me a solemn warning on no account to rub my eyes, however
tormented by the continual glare of a bright sun on white houses, or I
should be certain to “catch an incurable eye-disease and go on ‘weeping’
to the end of my days.”

“Never, never speak of disease again,” I had answered. “Misfortunes come
quickly enough, without our going to fetch them.”

Fortunately even the flies could not make it a _long_ journey from
Piræus to Athens; and we could glance in passing at the quaint and not
unattractive bookstalls, now showing large photographs of modern
“Heroes”—the Greek generals! After all, they had done their best. _They_
were no more responsible for the mistakes of _their_ Government, than we
are for ours.

Taking train for the last part of our route, we were packed like
sardines among the ugliest possible types of human beings one could
imagine; but, luckily, soon alighted at a station whose magic name
should thrill the dullest heart.

We were in Athens! But the Italian could only exclaim: “What women!” I
reminded him that they were, after all, descended from Helen of Troy,
for whose beauty the world in its youth made war. Yet it seemed almost a
heresy to name that name in such surroundings.

If only one could show all men what a tragedy is here.

“There is something I long to do,” I told my companion. “I would summon
crowds of my countrymen and my countrywomen to the Albert Hall and
borrow the magic tongue of Mr. Lloyd George, to draw their tears for our
dear Christian brethren at the mercy of the brutal Turk! And then a
deputation of these money-changing Greeks should be brought in to stand
at the Welshman’s right hand and his left!”

How many, even then, would read, mark, and digest the grim comment?

But the Italian laughed again and again at the picture my words
suggested. I could only murmur: “What is it, to be twenty-one!”

I believe we went into every church in Athens; for ever since I left
home I have never passed a church or a mosque without sparing a moment
to enter and pray for peace. “It will do no good,” said my companion,
and I replied: “It will do no harm.”

We saw many women also at prayer, kneeling before their Ikons—not for
victory, but in sad thoughts of their own dead, and for help and
strength to bear their own terrible sorrows.

Once the Greek Pope came up and spoke to us, supposing, to my young
Italian’s honest confusion, that we were man and wife. The spirit moved
him to denounce, in very broken French, the treachery of England; and,
whether or no it was from heat and fatigue, or from the sight of those
broken-hearted women, something seemed to burst in my throat and bitter
tears streamed from my tired eyes. I could not tell him _I_ was English.
I could not find words or strength, such as came to me later in
Anatolia, to plead a little for England by putting some of the blame on
M. Venizelos.

While the Italian discreetly left me—to kneel before an Ikon in silent
prayer to the Man of Sorrows—I could but stand and suffer the attack
upon my beloved country, choking with tears of humiliation.

Alas, the incident does not stand alone. When taking tea in an hotel, I
asked my companion to make inquiries about the best place to buy a Union
Jack, and the proprietor seized the opportunity to give us _his_ opinion
of British honour.

Now I never heard, throughout the whole of Anatolia, a single Turk speak
of Britain or Mr. Lloyd George as these Greeks both spoke. It is a pity
that some of our pro-Greek politicians were not with me—to learn the
_real_ value of all they have undertaken for their Christian brethren.

In that church, maybe, I was so cruelly overcome because the
broken-hearted women had stirred in me a glowing vision of the great
Pericles. “For me,” was his proud boast, “shall no man wear mourning. I
have not shed one drop of human blood.” Could any ruler leave this earth
with a nobler record? Could any conceive for himself so fine an epitaph?

_Our_ rulers, and Venizelos, have wasted the precious blood of Europe to
flatter their personal vanity and nurse an idle imperialism for Greece;
and when everything goes wrong they have only to resign!

I had determined to ascend the Acropolis, whatever the effort to reach
the top, and refused even to be discouraged when at the very entrance
our driver pulled up and informed us that “it was forbidden” to drive
within.

It did not occur to me to protest; but we had scarcely walked twenty
yards up the steep ascent when a carriage (containing the captain and
his daughter) and then another carriage (!) drove by. Naturally
indignant, we returned to ask the man what he meant. To evade argument,
he disingenuously explained: “It would need two horses to get up there,
and I have only one.” The subterfuge only infuriated me the more, and
when he had six times sturdily refused to obey orders, I simply seized
the miserable little being by the shoulders and shook him like a rat.
Violence proved the only way, and we had no more trouble with him!

It is horrible, in such hallowed surroundings, to be haggling about
money; but, of course, we were cheated over our change!

“Never mind,” said the Italian, “let the creatures rob us. Gentlemen
cannot fight with grooms.” And as I looked at the exquisite profile of
this young Venetian against the Athenian skies, I could fancy myself
accompanied by one of the old Patricians, amidst his degenerate,
money-changing descendants.

Almost in silence we wandered over the ruins of a civilisation whence
came the highest culture of the world. I felt, indeed, as if I had been
born too late; for what have _I_ in common with the century in which I
live?

To-day nations are not judged by their lyrics that are the measure of
their imagination, and without imagination the race must die. Our
standards are skill in commerce!

Had I the art, whether of pen or brush, to pay fit homage to this
immortal rock, who would look or listen? Could I invent yet one more
machine to “save time”—for making more money—the world would be at my
feet.

Where shall _we_ look for a Pericles, who hand our laurels to the
presiding genius of a “cash and carry” _store_?

There is no finer view of Athens than one can gain from the Acropolis,
as the city lies at its feet, like some plain of brown paper dotted with
green palms and the little white houses drawn in chalk.

“Here,” said I, “is the Greece of Oxford—of Homer and Plato, of Æschylus
and of Sophocles! The magnificent traditions of an immortal past.

“It was in Oxford of classic memories, that I first heard the Tales of
Greece, first listened to her great scholars telling of Andromache and
Antigone in the exquisite language of the finest literature in the
world.

“Here, too, is the Greece of Byron—of Childe Harold, and of the _Maid of
Athens_!”

How the voice carries in this clear atmosphere! No wonder these ancient
people would crowd under the blue skies to every play, tragic or comic,
that their great dramatists could produce.

And now, as the sunset colours—gold, scarlet, violet, and purple—are
glowing upon the immortal rock, over the marble ruins, I marvel at
“tiny” Athens and her “vast” name.

Alas, for Hellas and modern Greece!

Had her own people been as faithful as Oxford to the traditions of
ancient Greece, what would have been the Eastern Question to-day? And
for some, no doubt, it is this very honouring of Hellas that has been
responsible for our fatal pro-Greek enthusiasms. If we recognise the
superiority of the modern Turk, loyalty to Plato, to Aristotle, and to
Socrates must forbid speech; gratitude to the lyrcis of Hellas must tie
the tongue. Orators and poets, artists and thinkers cannot forget.
Hellas still lives and rules in the Republic of Letters and Art.

We understand Oxford; but for those who have been on the spot, facts
tell another tale and speak with another voice. Where, in Greece to-day,
are her men of intellect or imagination, even her aristocrats or her
warriors? The millions spent in propaganda may serve to prolong the
legend, they cannot alter facts. To visit, with glowing anticipations,
this land of our dreams, means the awakening to bitter disillusion.
Those only are still blind who will not see.

In Angora I could but plead for England: “We have loved Helen; must we
divorce her?”

More than the eloquence of Venizelos, more than the gold of Zakaroff,
more than any pity for Christian martyrs; it is our age-old loyalty to
the civilisation to which we owe our visions and our ideals—that has led
us so woefully and so wilfully astray. Is there not, after all, some
“merit” in British “fair play” to a “lost cause?”


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                               CHAPTER V

                    SMYRNA: A PICTURE OF DESOLATION


FOR Orientals, the sky is no less variable and uncertain than the
political horizon. In the space of an hour the sea, calm as a lake, has
been transformed to a roaring torrent.

Smyrna in the distance, and we are battling forward through one of the
worst storms of the season. The steamer dances like a cork on the foam,
while long sheets of rain drench the decks, huge waves washing into
staterooms soak the carpet, thunder and lightning rage overhead; as in
the grim battle of life, we can but hold on till the clouds pass.

Soon, indeed, are the waters about us again at rest, and the town rises
to our view. A city burnt to the ground? Where are the ruins of which we
have heard so much? Of a sudden the heavens answer.

As the lightning begins to play over the land, the “shells” of houses
and their hollow interiors stand out clear before us—a picture of horror
and desolation it would be hard to match. As we draw nearer it is no
longer necessary for us to gaze upon the devastation; the blind could
catch a strong smell of burning (not in itself disagreeable) and, in a
few moments, we see that even the rains have not entirely quenched the
clouds of smoke still rising from the tobacco factories.

Turkey considers herself at war, and red tape still prevails. But now
one does not find many Turks who can speak English, though, strange to
relate, there are quite a few English here still. We are not issuing
passports to Turks!

Seeing my Turkish letters (better these than a British passport), the
passport officer sent his secretary with me and my luggage to the Vali’s
(_i.e._ governor’s) house. The Angora Ambassador in Rome, Djelalledine
Arif Bey, had also telegraphed to the Vali that I was on my way, and
requested that, as some acknowledgment of what I had done for Turkey, I
should be given all possible facilities and a right royal welcome! The
Vali, without doubt, did all he could.

I inquired of the officer what kind of man was the Vali, sure that the
measure of his enthusiasm or his indifference would clearly reveal
whether the master was liked by his men and thus provide me with a peep
into the unknown. The man’s eyes positively lit up as he replied. It was
clear that I should be well received by a good man. “He was sent to
Malta, you know,” concluded the officer, as if that were enough. And,
though I was English, I understood. I believe that the word “Malta” may
soon be safely translated “patriot.”

I suppose it needed some courage to come to Turkey, braving the Custom
house and passport officers even with special “protection”; but I met
with no difficulties whatever. My companion only seemed puzzled by my
name being the same as my father’s! A Turkish woman, of course, would
be, _e.g._, Aïché Hanoun, wife of Rechid Pasha, or daughter of Zia
Pasha. But have no foreign women, bearing their father’s name, been
through the Smyrna customs, or am I not only the first British woman to
visit Angora, but the first British spinster to enter Turkey?

Something of all I owed to the Vali for his “speeding up” of the
customary formalities was forcibly impressed on me when I went back for
my Turkish papers, to find one of my fellow-passengers, a Frenchman,
still struggling with his passport and the custom duties.

The Vali’s konak (or palace) which I had long known from pictures, looks
on to public gardens where the band plays every afternoon a strange
mixture of Oriental and European music. It was delightful to hear
Oriental tunes again, if indeed one can call Oriental music _a tune_.
Anything in the major key seems out of focus with Turkey, its
atmosphere, its scenery, and surroundings. The more one hears and
understands the piercing melancholy of these refrains the more one loves
them; and I am particularly grateful to all those Turks (M. Kemal Pasha
included) who entertained me with the true native work.

In front of the marble steps of the palace Greek flags are used as
mats—dishonoured and trampled with Turkish mud! Such a symbol of
conquest struck me as neither generous nor happy; but I soon found that
it had been adopted without the knowledge of the chivalrous Vali, who
immediately put a stop to the custom.

His palace is lavishly supplied with fine carpets, always the chief item
of furniture in the East, while there are many chairs and a handsome
desk in the waiting room.

“Welcome to our shores, dear miss,” said the Vali.

And that he might at once disassociate me from English policy, I
replied: “That is certainly a charming welcome from a Malta man.”

“Malta to me,” said my host, as he took my hand like an old friend, “is
still incomprehensible. What can have happened to England?”

“I understand it, dear Excellency, no better than you can. The more I
hear of what has taken place in Turkey during the last few years, the
more often I repeat your own words. What, indeed? To an Englishwoman who
loves her country, it means great sorrow; but this unreasoning hostility
towards your people must stop. That is why I am going to Angora. After
my visit, at any rate, the Turks shall see that _one_ Englishwoman can
stand out against injustice.”

“Thank you a thousand times, dear miss,” was his reply, as the attendant
brought in coffee and cigarettes.

Like all the Nationalist leaders, the Vali is a young man. He looks, in
fact, about forty, and comes from an Albanian family. Of medium height,
slight and dark, good-looking despite his glasses, and intelligent; he
is, above all, an honest and kindly gentleman. If all the “fanatics” of
Angora are of this description, I shall have nothing to fear. Abdul
Halik Bey is a great admirer of England.

Begging I should not hesitate to ask for anything, assuring me that no
service possible to render will be neglected, he called up the head of
the police and three of his officers to make my acquaintance. The Vali
explains that as Smyrna is in ruins, I must go to the only existing
hotel—a temporary establishment under the care of Naim Bey, who had been
the proprietor of the two best hotels in Smyrna, now burnt to the
ground. This “temporary establishment” was the town residence of the
Spartallis and a very fine mansion indeed!

When I had said _au revoir_ to the Vali, I paid my return visit to the
chief of the police, Zia Bey—a handsome and very energetic young man of
about thirty-two, who speaks only Turkish.

Again we drank coffee. He pointed to the picture of M. Kemal Pasha above
his desk, and made a little speech about him, which, alas, I could not
understand. As comment, however, I clapped my hands, adding: “M. Kemal
Pasha Chok Guzel” (_i.e._, very beautiful), which evidently pleased him.
He could see at least that my spirit was willing to pay tribute to his
national hero although the Turkish words failed me. Throughout Anatolia,
whenever at a loss for words, I adopted this phrase; never once did it
fail to convey the meaning I intended—congratulations for his
magnificent victory.

Zia Bey has published some detective novels—from his own personal
experiences. Like the man himself, they seem to have secured wide
applause.

He, too, like the Vali, is a stern enemy to delay, and often receives
several people at once. He will listen to all you have to say, while the
business of an earlier caller is still to be executed. Practical and
courteous though such a custom may be, it obviously has its drawbacks. I
wonder what would happen had I any advice to ask, or any suggestion to
make, on what to me at least might seem private and confidential
matters. Thanks to this system, however, it has been my privilege to
meet at the Vali’s, or at Zia Bey’s, many notables of Smyrna, whom I
might not have found time or occasion to visit.

One day when drinking my daily coffee with Zia Bey, he handed 20,000
Turkish pounds to a French merchant. A policeman, he explained, “found
this in your rifled safe.” The merchant was so astonished that he spoke
to me about it, adding: “Would they have been returned to me in any
other land?”

Every day, after calling upon the Vali, I used to visit Zia Bey. To the
Vali, of course, I could speak in French, but to Zia Bey I seldom went
further than a repetition of praise for M. Kemal Pasha. It is not words
that count when the heart is following the dictates of truth.

At the hotel I could only be accommodated by the dismissal of another
guest. Men were sleeping everywhere—in the drawing-room, sitting-rooms,
bedrooms, three, four, and six in a room, grateful to find anywhere to
lay their heads. To my lot fell one of the best rooms in the house,
containing a sofa as well as a bed large enough for four. I felt very
guilty, but what could I do? I was the only woman!

To this improvised hotel everyone in Smyrna comes sooner or later, if
not for accommodation, at least for meals and “light” refreshment. The
country, of course, is dry, but the guests walk round the laws as
cleverly as they do in the U.S.A. Americans are, perhaps, the chief
offenders, and seem always able to bring in with them whatever they
require. If they are caught Naim has to pay the damages! “Poor things,”
he remarked by way of comment, “they are so far from their homes.”

Most unfortunately, the Turk’s kindness and consideration for his
customers is not withheld from the flies. The Nationalist motto, “A free
and independent Turkey,” has certainly been granted them—they go
wherever they like, do whatever they like. They sit in thick layers on
the table-cloth, they drown themselves in your glasses, you swallow them
with your food; “and to think,” said a Danish merchant, “these creatures
have been fattening on corpses!”

Whatever their nationality, all my neighbours made the most chivalrous
endeavours to shield me from these pests. I was advised to sacrifice my
bread as a cover to my glass when not drinking. I always refused water,
and Naim Bey defied the law to give me German wine.

One day, exasperated beyond endurance, I procured what the French call a
“guillotine,” and successfully slaughtered every fly that came within my
reach. The “Italian” gently inquired whether the corpses were not more
awful than the living insects.

“At least,” I said, “they cannot bite or carry microbes,” and I pursued
the slaughter with a zeal that astonished even myself. I even aimed at
those I saw walking over the South American’s arm, and hit his nose!
Without a smile, he courteously declared that he did not mind what I
might do to his nose, “but you _will_ be careful of my glasses, won’t
you?”

“Can’t you _do_ something?” I asked Naim one day.

“They will go away when it is cold,” he replied with the philosophy of
the true Turk.

“Cure or endure is also _my_ motto,” I told him, smiling, “but I never
endure before I’ve made a fine attempt to cure.”

On another occasion, my energies were not rewarded with true _Christian_
gratitude or tact. I was busy as usual, when an orthodox lady who had
given her nationality as “Catholic,” and was staying in Smyrna by
special dispensation of the Turks, said to a Greek neighbour: “Look at
this lady slaughtering flies, as her friends the Turks slaughter
Christians.”

“Madame,” said I, “I have passed this morning among the ruins to which
your ‘Christians’ have reduced this city.” I had yet to see the hideous
devastation in Anatolia!

There were about two or three hundred business men in the hotel, waiting
to learn their fate. They divided themselves into three distinct groups,
in three different mess rooms. _First_, the silent, water-drinking,
go-to-bed-at-nine Turks, in the library. _Secondly_, Americans, in the
smoking-room, who left their allegiance to prohibition on the other side
of the Atlantic; singing and dancing to the accompaniment of a banjo
till the small hours of the morning. _Thirdly_, at a long table in the
dining-room, sat the rest of us—principally business men—Italian,
Spanish, Dutch, South American, Frenchmen, or Danes. My only
fellow-countryman informed me that among other complications he had come
to Smyrna to arrange, he has somehow to explain away the disappearance
of 50,000 gallons of pure alcohol, sent from Cuba to Smyrna _via_ New
York. The officials in New York had helped themselves to the precious
nectar, and sent the cargo on to Smyrna, refilled with water! Such are
the trials of prohibition!

One and all, these men have but three topics of conversation: (1) the
senseless policy of Mr. Lloyd George in sending the Greeks to Smyrna;
(2) the criminal desire of the Turks to abolish capitulations; (3) the
“probabilities” of likely successors to the deported Greeks and
Armenians in the business world. It is assumed that Turkey cannot
survive without the assistance of some European power. The Turk is a
producer, not a merchant. The Italians affirm that trade would flourish
in a happier world if they were given the vacancy. The Americans,
however, dispute this honour, whilst the Dutchman, supported by a Dutch
clergyman (born of French parents, but a British subject, in the service
of Holland, speaking all three languages without an accent), declares
the only power that is “going to count” in Turkey is Great Britain.

“In spite of her deplorable and ill-advised policy, her inexplicable
treatment of the Turks, her protection of the Greeks (which has made
_them_ more arrogant and destestable than ever), there is _something_ in
the British national character which still commands respect and
admiration. In six or eight months we shall see England back in Turkey,
stronger than ever. England is _not_ her government.”

I believe he is right. There was a more practical reason for his
convictions than his deep affection for his English wife.

Holding no brief for Mr. Lloyd George, I still scorn these men of
finance as cowards for their unmeasured abuse of the Premier.

“If you foresaw disaster so plainly,” I asked, “why did you not
protest?”

“Every Chamber of Commerce sent a petition to Mr. Lloyd George,” was the
reply, “which he put into his waste-basket.”

“Naturally. As practical men, is that your idea of a _protest_?”

“One of our biggest men, Mr. Patterson, went to the Paris Conference on
our behalf.”

“Did he make himself heard? I assure you, if I had _one_ hundred pounds
invested in this country, instead of the hundreds of thousands your
Scotsman holds, the world would have heard something of _my_ visit to
Paris!

“You saw financial disaster and ruin ahead, yet allowed yourselves to be
talked into silence by M. Venizelos!”

Somehow, _these_ men could not excite my pity. They were themselves more
to blame than Mr. Lloyd George. With their huge financial backing, and
vast interests in Smyrna, it was actually in their power, and theirs
alone, to have kept out the Greeks.

It is a quaint result of my sense of justice that, in the French Secret
Service, I am known as “a niece of Mr. Lloyd George.” When the brilliant
one-time _chef de Cabinet_ of Monsieur Briand published his violent
attacks on Lord Robert Cecil and our late Premier, he also printed my
replies. “He did not,” he kindly explained, “consider there was a word
of truth in what I said, but he was unwilling to thwart an
Englishwoman!”

Shortly after the appearance of my “defence,” the correspondent of a big
newspaper in Chicago spoke of “my uncle,” Mr. Lloyd George. I protested,
“not because I should not be proud of the relationship, but because I
happen to have no such claim.”

“Dear lady,” he replied, “don’t think I shall ever want to spoil your
little game.”

Such a remark did not merit a serious answer, and I allowed the matter
to slide. I knew very well Mr. Lloyd George would never lift a finger to
help “his niece,” for have I not four times appealed to him in vain on
matters of the greatest national importance? Yet “his niece” will
continue to defend him against “unjust” attacks, and criticise him also.

The Smyrna capitalists also did not love me because I wrote: “The day is
past when financiers can obtain ‘concessions’ for 500 Turkish pounds
backshish and then complain of the Turks for being amenable to bribes.
The happy day will never return when the foreigner lived in Turkey
without taxation, with next to nothing to pay in rent, was charged one
and sixpence for a shooting licence, and had full control of money and
trade.”

“Turkey is now for the Turks, and the Capitalists will have to recognise
this or leave.

“Never again will Smyrna become the Aliens’ Paradise it once was. Would
anyone, for example, have dared to offer the trams provided for Smyrna
to any other nation but Turkey? Why were there not electric trams,
instead of these wretched horse-boxes drawn by underfed ponies? And the
compartment reserved for Turkish women was not even separated by a
partition, but by a sheet that once perhaps was white!

“There are men in this town,” I wrote, “who would plunge Europe into
war, to bring back the dear old lazy-going Turk who made so charming a
background for our novels and plays. They would restore him for no
higher purpose than to fill their purses at his expense.” At least, I
said to these merchants: “If you cannot ‘love’ my whip, you know, in
your heart of hearts, that I have spoken the truth. You should have a
mighty respect for me, and I ask for nothing more.” The South American
answered: “Every word you say _is_ true, and we _all_ admire you for
it.”

Towards nightfall, however, my mind was occupied by certain more
personal anxieties. The Italian had not yet even come to the hotel, and
I could hear nothing of him. I began to reproach myself with not having
attempted to extend the protection of my papers to him, although, like
the gentleman he is, he had already refused my suggestion to that
effect.

I could only apply, as a last resource, to the Vali’s secretary, who at
once took me to the Caracol (_i.e._, the “lock-up”), where we found my
friend in company with the Frenchman we had already been pitying for his
struggles with passports. Neither of these young men were known in
Smyrna; neither of them had secured permission from Angora to land;
neither of them were personally known to their Consuls; neither of them
were able to speak a word of Turkish. They could not explain themselves,
and were, therefore, to be kept under arrest till further inquiries
could be made.

“After all, in war-time did we not do worse things than this?” I asked
the enraged Frenchman, who was declaring such treatment would make a
_casus belli_.

“When I was serving your country and travelling to San Remo with a
special letter of recommendation from the French Minister of War, I was
detained for forty-eight hours at Mentone, because they considered my
‘Plato’s Republic’ a proof of sympathy with the Bolshevists.” I was
able, however, with the secretary’s willing assistance, to liberate both
my fellow-passengers without further delay.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Naim Bey gave me many special privileges, no doubt as the result of
prompting from the same quarter. He sent me up breakfast in the
mornings, though his servants were all “Catholics” (_i.e._, Armenians,
under the Papal protection), and did not know their job. I never could
understand how he contrived to supply me with milk, as the Greeks had
killed most of the cows; but I was no less heartily grateful for his
permission to use the Spartelli library, and for the reading-lamp which
he borrowed for me from an American.

All these acts of kindness, however, were done with such an appearance
of ease that I even ventured upon one more request.

“Could I use the piano to accompany my Italian friend?”

He did not hesitate to banish the six occupants of “mattresses” in the
drawing-room from their domain until we finished “La Tosca” and “Madame
Butterfly.” Then an American begged me to play the “Swannee River,” and
nearly broke down before he had even got to the chorus.

“Did I not tell you,” said the sympathetic Naim, “Poor things, they are
so far away from home!”

I suppose I should not be too severe upon these merchants among the
ruins of their past glory, and, to do them justice, they are accepting
defeat like good sportsmen. The Dutchman is as merry as a cricket,
despite his £80,000 “gone west,” his thirty years’ work undone for ever,
his fine farm burnt to cinders.

I wish he would make a book out of all he has seen and done in this land
of romance. No one knows it better, and, if my own sympathies are apt to
be with the brigands from whom he has twice suffered capture (because
they only rob the rich), I have enjoyed few men’s tales of adventure
more than his. Good and strong men are rare enough, and I know this one
would never forget a friend. If danger threatened, it would only reach
you over his dead body.


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                               CHAPTER VI

               BRITISH CHIVALRY!—BRAVE WOMEN A NUISANCE!


“WOMEN are so absurdly brave,” said a charming British official, “that
is why they are such a nuisance.”

He was seated at a small, improvised and over-crowded bureau in one of
the few remaining houses on the Smyrna Quay. He had just sufficient of a
Scotch accent to make one see that he would stand no nonsense—an asset,
surely, in his position. Yet the obvious and zealous concern for his own
countrywoman proved that, however carefully the calm exterior of the
Scot may hide his feelings, his heart beats strong and true. He is no
less proud, too, of his “women” than any citizen of the States!

But this able and active young man, master of any emergency at a crisis,
could not accept my point of view about the Nationalist Turk. That,
certainly, was not _his_ fault, for who is there to interpret this “new”
people to him? He only knows that, for the first time, Turks have dared
to express themselves, and—like brave women—are becoming a great
nuisance! Under the good Hamid, these lazy people were easy enough to
manage. “Turkey for the Turks!” What a monstrous notion! Yet one feels,
nay knows, that he has plenty of intelligence, will face facts, and
learn to accept the inevitable.

Meanwhile, I, for my part, am throwing a most unwelcome additional
weight upon his already over-burdened shoulders. He is clearly annoyed
at my having come so far, and, in his place, who would not have felt the
same?

But, unfortunately for him, he knows very well that a woman who, despite
difficulties well-nigh insurmountable, has been able to reach Smyrna
without a British viza, means to get her way and will not be lightly
driven back.

If only the man had adopted the bullying and supercilious tone that
becomes a uniform! One can so easily meet the “correct” officialism,
counter its attacks, stand up to its incivility, and go one’s own way
with a clear conscience. But it was not to be with my Scotch friend.

“I admire your courage immensely,” he said with a courteous grace, “but,
pardon my asking, what is the sense of it all?”

“I want to study ‘the movement’ at Angora, and to see the national hero,
M. Kemal Pasha.”

“Is it worth risking your life for that? Forgive me, it does seem rather
a wicked waste.”

Outside his windows, on the calm waters of the bay, rode warships of
many nations. The bright sun looked down, unkindly it almost seemed,
upon the ruin and desolation around us. The arms of England, France and
America were all there. Holland, he told me, had begged in terror for
the protection of a warship.

“Terror of what?” I asked.

“Have you not heard, can you not see, we are on the brink of war?
To-morrow you will be going home with the others. Our Government has
given orders for the immediate evacuation of all our people. Later you
will receive final instructions, and be told the meeting-place. This
time it is war. There is no help for it. It has to come.”

He showed me a flashlight, well hidden in a corner of that dilapidated
office, which would send out its news of “safety” when every Englishman
had left the town, and he, my friend, had followed them in a boat with
its oars muffled—if he were able to get away. If not, well, he had done
his duty!

But I remained unmoved. “Do not worry about me. I have made all my
plans, and shall start to-morrow for Angora. I know the risks, and I
know, too, that all will be well for me.”

At first, evidently, his official mind suspected that I was playing with
his nerves, idly boasting of what no one would seriously attempt. When
convinced, however, that I really meant what I said, he banged his fist
on the table and just shouted:

“By Jove, if you belonged to me, you should _not go_.”

How I hoped he had lost his temper! But no, in another moment he was
again all quiet concern, courteously persuasive.

“But,” said I, “I have reached here against long odds. I have come
entirely on my own responsibility, and at my own expense. The Turks who
met me here will take care of me, not my family nor my Government. Even
war will not stop me.”

“And when there is war,” he replied, with a note of almost despairing
entreaty, “for as there is a God above, it will come this time. Think of
it! A woman absolutely alone among the Turks; not a European to help
her. Six months, at least, in a concentration camp, illness, perhaps
torture. God knows what will happen to you!”

“I shall not be put into a concentration camp, for there will be no war.
I am going to stop it!”

I was smiling now, which only added to his distress.

“My dear young lady,” he cried, “keep your courage for some wiser, finer
cause. Britain needs you.... Seriously, you are not going, are you?—And
the war!”

“I shall nurse the British soldiers, or else return——”

“You speak of the Turks as if you trusted them. Is this wise?”

“Indeed, yes. I know them. The only way to treat a Turk _is_ to trust
him. He has never yet let me down. Why should he now? Even at this
crisis you will find there is no other way but trust with the Moslem.”

Of course he was not convinced.

“Charming theories, but dangerous in practice; above all, dangerous for
you. Go home. You can see your friends again when things are more
settled. Don’t think I don’t admire your pluck; I do. In all my
experience I never met a woman ready for greater risk; but we value you
too much to let you go.”

It was a wearisome line of attack. I could so much more easily have
dealt with violence from a would-be dictator. I tried again, hoping to
silence a busy man.

“Please imagine you are an American,” I suggested, “and that time is
money.”

“Time is _not_ money when a woman’s life is at stake. Forgive me, your
courage—which I shall never forget—is immense, but you are not a
sportsman!”

“What do you mean?”

“It is not fair to us—Englishmen! What will the Turks think of us,
allowing it? They will have a mighty poor opinion of British chivalry.
And we do not deserve it! Would they let one of _their_ women do such a
thing? We, too, protect our women!”

I was losing ground, at least _that_ appeal hurt; but I could not yield.

“You need not worry,” I replied, with more unconcern than I could really
feel at the moment. “I will see that they understand. They _do_ know how
England cares for her women; but they know me, what a determined
customer I am. They will not blame you.”

He played his last card, bashfully indeed, but with a grim resolve that
won my respect.

“Dear lady, I have no wish to be personal, but you have driven me to it.
You are not—ugly enough to undertake this journey.... Go and see the
British Navy you love so much. We will look after the Turks, and you
too. Come and see them when we have finished with them.”

I saw that I must not only be firm, but I must speak, and speak plainly.
“If any harm comes of it,” I said, seriously enough, God knows, “it will
be my own fault. The Turk respects women who respect themselves. Ten
years ago I went to Asia Minor, with a military escort, the only woman;
but I was absolutely safe all the time, everywhere.”

There was no more to be said. Discomfited, indeed, by so much chivalry,
I left him, intending, after all, to wait and see if war were declared.
But, fortunately, I had given no promise, for to the Scotchman I knew
truth and honour were sacred things.

In justice to the official attitude, it should be clearly said that no
one could be expected to understand what I should have given up had I
returned to England, under orders, with the rest of my compatriots.

What, after all, were the difficulties that I had overcome in comparison
with my real object—to reach Angora? What matter if the family coffers,
the purses of my friends, and even editorial generosity, were one and
all closed against me? None should have on their conscience that they
had sent me to my death!

My contract with the newspaper! It was “deliver the goods and your
reward shall be handsome.” The goods, indeed, are delivered and, in a
fashion, made public. They have not, however, been acknowledged as
“woman’s work,” and the reward seems still far to seek!

I had not supposed that in journalism “the sex” must suffer the double
loss of justice and credit. The articles were certainly not stamped with
any plain mark of a _feminine_ special correspondent.

Unfortunately, we are not in Turkey! where women’s achievements have
still the “novelty” that can command a fine flourish of trumpets, where
no cry has been needed of “equal work—equal pay!”

Had I foreseen, should I then have returned to punish ingratitude? I
think not. At such a moment I could not forego the most thrilling
chapter of the story that has held me for so many years; ever since,
indeed, I used to climb on the knee of the dear being whose name I bear,
to hear him tell of his journeyings to those Eastern lands—Japan and
China, India and Moslem Turkey.

Many curious interpretations have been put upon my interest in these
peoples. The Turks themselves have wondered how it came about.

It is because they had been my friends long years before I ever set foot
on their now familiar land. Its colours, its beauty, its glorious
summers and sunsets, the fine thought and philosophy of its high-minded,
sober people, were known to me in the nursery, as only a child can live
in the imaginations stirred by those it loves. They were always brothers
to me, the Orientals of India and Persia, Egypt, Arabia, and Turkey. I
would give much, indeed, to secure for them the happiness they deserve
for what they have given to the culture and to the civilisation of the
world.

The stupidity of treating the Asiatic as an “inferior” I could never
understand. It is no less impolitic than unjust. What a delight, in our
century of semi-tones and of commercialism, to talk with men like
Tagore!


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER VII

         SMYRNA—GOD’S WORK—THE EXQUISITE SUNSET—MAN’S WORK—WAR


I TAKE daily walks in Smyrna, with one of the Vali’s officers, chiefly
among the ruins. The European part of the town (save for a few houses on
the quay and a few hospitals, schools, and churches) has simply ceased
to exist. The empty “shells” of what were once fine streets are a great
danger to passers-by and must all be blasted.

When I told my guide that from the deck of the _Pierre Loti_ the town
showed scarcely a sign of fire, he promptly led me—for eight
hours—through the most horrible _débris_! Instructed to treat me with
great respect, he marched steadily ahead with all the gravity of a
funeral mute. He had been told, moreover, to reconstruct, as it were,
the whole city for my information, and he was obviously determined to
overlook no detail. He pointed out exactly how the fire had been
planned, and why it had broken out too soon. Passing the Stores, he laid
a finger upon the very spots marked by grenades that Greeks and
Armenians had thrown. There was a grim disgust and disdain in his last
comment: “And all this _funniness_ is supposed to have been done _by
us_!”—a strange use of the word funniness.

On another occasion, resting a moment among the ruins of what had once
been an altar, watching the poor Turkish natives as they raked the
_débris_ for firewood, we were suddenly surrounded by a most dismal
procession of limping cats and dogs, thin as boards, crying with hunger
and pain, homeless, maimed, and with none to claim them or cherish their
shrunken limbs. I suggested that we should buy a little ether and send
them to their long sleep. My companion was shocked beyond words.

“Poor beasts,” he exclaimed, “have not they as much right to be on God’s
earth as we? Who are we that we should dare to cut short their
existence?”

Naturally I did what I could to express all the sympathy his words
aroused; determining, nevertheless, in my own mind, that I would beg the
Englishman or the Italian to accomplish this errand of mercy.

At the same time, the incident only further excited my deep interest in
the strange mentality of a people who claim the full rights of existence
even for maimed cats and dogs, and are yet held guilty by the whole
world of massacring millions of Christians for mere sport.

Later that day I was for the moment extremely puzzled by the strange
behaviour of all the inhabitants within sight, which certainly seemed
most _un_-Turkish. “I have known your people for fifteen years,” I said
(only intending a mild joke), “and this is the first time I have ever
seen a Turk hurry! What is the matter?”

“They are going to blast the ruins,” was my companion’s calm reply.

To my thinking it was, indeed, time to be off; and I hopped away like
the others, in and out among the charred ruins, at one moment catching
my heel, at another tearing my skirt and coat. When, panting and
breathless, we at last reached comparative safety, I laughingly asked my
guide why he had given me no warning. “You could have no idea whether I
could run like this at the last moment.”

“His Excellency told me that you were to be treated with the utmost
respect,” was the solemn reply!

It was true that the day before I had been informed that it was
forbidden to take photographs among the ruins, and I at once closed my
Kodak. But in the evening an apology arrived from the Chief of
Police.:—“I might photograph, when and where I pleased.”

I can only suppose my guide believed that “Allah would guard me” when
the blasting began; at least, whatever was to be my fate, he was ready
to share it!

                  *       *       *       *       *

We have been wandering about the muddy streets of the bazaar,
immortalised by Pierre Loti. It is here, in these little Turkish
booths—the tinker’s, tailor’s, and shoemaker’s, the meat-man’s, the
baker’s, and the sweet-seller’s—that the inhabitants of Smyrna must do
their shopping to-day. How can we think of Frank Street and its vast
European “emporium,” now no more than a smouldering heap of crumbling
ruins?

Town-planning is as yet unknown in Turkey. Here, as elsewhere, the
houses seem to be straggling upon the hillside, forming an architectural
patchwork far more picturesque than the most correct symmetry.

We are now to ascend Mont Pegasus, and though I hate climbing, the
sunset panorama of an Eastern city will reward a greater effort than
this. To look on the fading sunlight in all its glorious magnificence of
purple and scarlet and mauve, is to know we are in the presence of God;
and if ever the world needed His guidance, it surely must seek Him now.

“That,” I murmured, “is how God meant us to find His world—a life of
sunshine, a death of beauty. No fear, no shrinking before what must come
to all; but His glory reflected about us, as the sun’s beauty is reborn
for us in the infinite, waiting sea.

“Look up, and then turn your eyes down to man’s work below our
feet—black war, grey ruin and desolation!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

An English lady, Mrs. de C——, the widow of a distinguished British
Minister in Teheran and Bucharest, has just given me a more level-headed
and _fair_ description of the Smyrna fire than I have yet heard from any
other eye-witness. Her husband was manager of the Aidin Railway, and had
the luck to unearth a unique collection of priceless antiques along the
route. Tea was served in the entrance hall of their house in the
European quarter, one of the few still erect, which reminded me of the
British Museum. One could fancy oneself among the treasures of the
Parthenon, which it has fallen to British hands to preserve.

She told me she owed her home to the wind’s kindness. “We were on the
roof all night, watching its varying directions, although it did not
come our way until about 2.30 A.M. As the abandoned Greek ammunition was
all stored behind us, we could no longer risk staying in the face of the
wind. At the same moment a flashlight from H.M.S. _Iron Duke_ began to
play on the pier, and we realised that Admiral de Brock was signalling
for us to leave the town. Pushing our way through a howling mob of men
and animals, we at last reached the waiting boat; but no sooner were we
on board than, to our relief, the wind once more veered. There was a
chance for one side of the Smyrna Quay, on which stood the Aidin
station.”

In her judgment, the Turks acted throughout with the greatest
moderation. Everywhere in Anatolia I found clear evidence that Greeks
had indulged in the worst type of barbarianism, amply sufficient to
justify any slight Turkish excesses that may have occurred in Smyrna.

Since her Greek household had all departed, Mrs. de C—— was very busy
“about many things”—dusting, sweeping, and cooking. Nor were her
sympathies very keen with the Greek refugees, to many of whom she had
extended hospitality. They had accepted a night’s lodging, and then
decamped with sheets, blankets, pillows, towels, and clothes!

Lunch, however, had been served for her by a “Catholic,” who cooked
Turkish dishes to perfection. “Catholic” is now the last word in
“Nationality,” covering a multitude of “pasts,” and saving the
“Christian” from having to answer awkward questions.

The “Catholic” who waits on me at the hotel was an upholsterer in quite
a large way of business. The sewing-woman, whom I have occasionally
employed for odd jobs, though a Greek, is also “Catholic.” In Angora
these derelicts are self-styled “Catholic Turks.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

I have boarded the warship, despite the captain’s fear of a woman’s pen.
What would he find to say about my _real_ intentions? Most of us,
happily, can look on sailors of all nations, as I do, absolutely without
prejudice. For here, at least, none can capture our laurels, and all the
world loves a British sailor.

Amidst the beautiful fittings of his luxurious cabin, I was received by
the captain with every mark of the courtesy that is second nature to the
real English gentleman. He was a naval man to his finger-tips, stamped
all over with Nelson’s magic call to “Duty.” For his magnificent
achievements in the war, his V.C. was indeed richly deserved; and yet, I
wondered, is it the wisest policy to expose this _real_ “personage” to
the kind of actually trivial irregularities which in a town like Smyrna
a too formal officialism may so easily mistake for grave affronts to our
national prestige?

While in Smyrna I saw an example of such real dangers—a mere nothing
that might suddenly have developed into a _casus belli_, though in this
case any serious disaster was, luckily, averted.

The Turks had given the sailors from different warships special
permission to land on the quay without the formality of going through
the Custom House. Unfortunately, certain Armenian girls saw their chance
to coax the sailormen into helping them to escape. I am told that the
British were adamant to tales of woe that turned Americans, French, and
Italians to putty; but I will not believe it, for I prefer to think our
men had their share in defying the law to help women.

The Turkish authorities, however, were, naturally and properly,
indignant at the deception, and gave orders that in future everyone
should land at the Custom House. Most unfortunately, the order was
immediately carried out, without a warning to the captain. When that
personage came ashore next morning, therefore, he found himself
confronted by an Anatolian peasant, rifle in hand, who actually slipped
in an extra cartridge under the great man’s eye.

Our consul, of course, intervened, and the captain, with his sword
drawn, was permitted to land, ample apologies being tendered in due
course by a repentant Vali.

No more was heard of this incident; but with some “big” men it would not
have been allowed to end there.

I admit that a warning should have reached the captain; but Turks are
proverbially careless about official details. It was just bad luck, too,
that some petty officer was not the first to land, who could have borne
the indignity without loss of prestige, and “arranged” matters for his
chief; but if we must appoint our “best” men to such a post, someone
smaller should be sent in advance to spy out the land. Friction is bound
to occur between our experienced officers, statesmen, or diplomats
(above all, if their sense of humour is not very keen) and the primitive
Anatolians of young Turkey. We should, surely, have been well advised in
this matter to follow the French way of employing “middle men” for a
time.

I love the casual freedom of Turkish customs, which will suffer a train
to be kept waiting for my private comfort; but the characteristic may be
extremely trying on another occasion. Every virtue has its pet vice!

When I visited Turkey after the Balkan war our steamer somehow “missed”
the mouth of the bay, and no one remembered the exact position of the
mines! As a matter of fact, the _Senegal_ was blown to atoms only a few
days ahead, and our own escape was pure luck. There was considerable
alarm on board, and I was once more filled with gratitude for my own
small share of the fatalism of the Turk!

On this occasion, for my own private benefit, I could also have wished
that our captain had been a “smaller” man, or one less scrupulously
compact of duty. When I admitted that I had really come on board in
search of a British flag, no matter how torn and tattered, he only
looked at me as though I were mad.

“You don’t seem to know much about the inner workings of the navy,” was
all he _said_.

“One does not bother about the ‘inner workings’ of anything one loves,”
I answered.

So with the gravest courtesy he explained to me that a new flag could
not possibly be obtained until the “tattered” one had been handed over
to H.Q. Nevertheless I believe that a French, Italian, or even an
American, captain would have contrived some means of acceding to my
request.

As it happens, I once saw the man off his guard. He was playing the host
to a beautiful Englishwoman and her French husband, his neighbours on
their own yacht, and no one could have seemed more naturally genial and
light-hearted, with his really delightful sense of humour. Is it
_necessary_ for a uniform to conceal all traces of humanity? Why could
not the world see the man’s best side in the officer? The strictest
sense of “fair play,” combined with great patience, will work even
better with the Turks when added to a generous supply of smiles and wit.

                  *       *       *       *       *

When the Vali sent word that all was ready for me to proceed on my way
to Angora, I could not hesitate. Whatever my compatriots may have said,
and would, no doubt, have now repeated with greater emphasis, I could
not think of having allowed him to take so much trouble on my account
for nothing!

Above all, particularly towards a Moslem, the last thing that any lady
could think of doing would be to betray the slightest lack of trust.
What matter if we were on the brink of war? It simply never entered my
head that I could really come to any harm from the Turks!

It is of interest, nevertheless, to put on record the various, not
altogether unreasonable, warnings that I received at the hotel in Smyrna
from my fellow-guests. One and all were quite convinced that I had taken
leave of my senses. Only a mad woman would think of going to Angora at
this season and on the brink of war!

_The Spaniard_ had spent his life in the Near East and knew the Turks!
“Your own friends,” he said, “the Ministers who know you, may show you
the greatest respect; but you are English and cannot speak the language.
The _people_ are mere fanatics!” However, he gave me a box of insect
powder, a bottle of iodine, and—most welcome of all to me—a yard of
flannel to make an abdominal belt!

_One Italian_ implored me to “come back and enjoy the Italian skies....
You will freeze in Angora.” He gave me a packet of chocolate and half a
bottle of cognac.

_A Second Italian_ could only endeavour to “face the fact” that I was
determined to have my way. As he knew something of where I was going, he
brought me quinine, asperin, mosquito-cream, and calomel.

_The Dane_ was horrified to learn that I had no gold. “Gold is essential
in war-time. Gold saved my life in Russia;” and he handed me in exchange
for paper fifty gold Turkish pounds, which, however, proved more weighty
than useful.

_The Dutch Parson_ gave me his blessing. Though generally optimistic and
pro-Turk, he admitted that things looked unusually black at the moment,
and advised me to “wait and see.”

_A British Naval Officer_ would not admit the sarcasm of his comment
that it was “very interesting” of me to “go to Angora!” He considered
“the Turks the finest race on the face of the earth.... My God, they
know what I mean!” And, personally, I believe they knew very well.

_One American_ could only repeat that “it was a mad idea.... We are not
safe even here. There is plenty of oil there, certainly, but—heroics
_is_ heroics!”

_A Second American_ wanted to know “what they were giving me for this
stunt,” and guessed “it was a pretty high figure.” That I was going on
my own responsibility and paying my own way he “simply would not
believe.”

_The South American_ was the first of them all to express any confidence
that the Turks would be kind. What _he_ dreaded for me was the
discomfort. “Above all,” he said, “avoid the Red Army.”

_The Englishman_ characteristically pinned his faith on the courage of
our race. “It has brought you here,” said he, “and I believe it will
bring you back.... Here is my woollen jacket, a tin of milk, and this
letter to an American friend of mine. Promise me, if _ever_ you are in
difficulty, you will seek his help.”

I afterwards made inquiries about this invaluable ally, though I was,
fortunately, in no danger. I found that, after all, he never reached
Angora, though he had applied to go there last March!

_A Third Italian_ told me that he had just found a little silver St.
Antoine de Padou among the ruins.... “My prayers for you will go with it
always. After the snows of Angora, our Italian sunshine, its songs and
its laughter, will await you.” Besides the St. Anthony, he gave me a
book of Italian proverbs, a box of insect-powder, cough-drops, and
chocolate.

_The Frenchman_ only exclaimed: “No Angora for me, _merci_! I am
counting the hours until the boat arrives to take me away from all
this.”

_The Englishwoman_ (Mrs. de C——) felt proud to think of the “feather in
a woman’s cap,” that such an adventure would surely prove.

_The Dutchman_ declared that he would trust even his own daughter on
such a journey, if “the Vali had pledged his word for her safe
conduct.... I know this country inside out—its language, its dangers,
its possibilities, its virtues and faults.... You may trust the Vali....
If war breaks out, they will take you, with all possible politeness, to
the nearest frontier.”

He gave me all kinds of useful information, and much-needed boxes of
matches and cigarettes.

Truly a wonderful budget of advice and a most original collection of
gifts! Did ever a woman thus start such a quest?

Yet they had made me sad! Some were born here, others had lived in the
country all their lives, and how few of them would trust the Turk, to
whom, after all, they owed, at least, their material existence.

“I will show you,” I said, as we were all assembled for farewell, “that
I am right, and you are _all_ wrong. Though my country may turn on
Turkey, she will be good to me.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was nearly seven o’clock next morning before the officer came for me.
It was so late that our horses had to be whipped up to a smart pace over
the bumpy road to the station. My conductor had been so anxious about
all arrangements, that he had packed the food for our five or seven
days’ trip, and entrusted it to a chauffeur, who was perverse enough not
to wake up in time.

This certainly might be regarded as an omen of ill-luck, and even as I
got into the train, between the officer and a cheik (who had been
professor of Arabic at Oxford), the South American stepped forward to
ask whether, after all, I had not better return with him.

“And show the Turks I do not trust them.... Never. Besides, this
gentleman has lived in Oxford, and is therefore almost a compatriot.
Tell my friends in Smyrna that I am perfectly well and happy, and that I
am going to have a lovely time.”

I saw that both my conductors were greatly pleased by my expressions of
trust, which they well knew how to appreciate.

Nevertheless, when we had been driving along the quay and my eyes had
fallen on our own man-of-war flying the Union Jack without which, for
the first time in my life, I was embarking upon my perilous way, I was
not far from tears.

My thoughts were crowded with all that England has ever meant to me,
from the quiet corner in the churchyard where my father is sleeping, to
the little face, seldom innocent of jam, that looks up so eagerly to
tell his “Auntie” he has been a naughty boy.

Shall I, indeed, soon find myself in an “enemy” country, which surely
should be, as I have always known it, the land of my England’s dearest
friends?


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER VIII

 EMOTIONS AND IMPRESSIONS—“ON THE WAY.”—NOWHERE TO HOUSE THE POOR PEOPLE


IT was, indeed, a kindly Providence that led the cheik to accompany us
upon this stage of my tour. No one could have been more polite and
thoughtful, more ready to gratify my every wish at great personal
sacrifice, than the officer from Smyrna. But he had not been at Oxford;
he could not speak our language with the distinguished accent of that
University; above all, he had not the vast culture of this man of God.
His information would have been conveyed in German, a language I speak
with _no_ pleasure.

The cheik has large brown eyes, a dusky skin, and a face which, though
stamped with suffering, is kindness itself. He wore a long grey coat and
turban, and appeared to me at that moment years older than his actual
age. Maybe my inborn veneration for Oxford professors misled me; and no
doubt I was also influenced by the obvious respect of the many
hoary-headed disciples who came to the station to bid their “Master”
farewell, bending to kiss his hand and receive his blessing. Great
erudition, again, must always add to a man’s appearance of age, and his
allusions to varied experiences in many a Moslem land did certainly
suggest the passing of years.

Like myself, however, he was going to Angora for the first time,
venturing behind the long line of bayonets which still separates that
troubled land from the rest of the world.

In complete sympathy with my admiration for these men who had suffered
and been victorious, he was eager to learn a little of the tribulation
through which they had fought their way to liberty and freedom.

“It seems to me,” I began, “that were I the British High Commissioner, I
should have found some means of, at least, paying a visit to Angora.
What do our legislators yet know about this land under their charge, for
which they have been made responsible? They can have no idea of the
people’s aims, their faults and their virtues. You might as well take
charge of some province in heaven of which you only know that it
exists.”

“There is not a Turk to-day who would not welcome you as British High
Commissioner,” was the gallant reply. “We are, indeed, deeply grateful
for your trust. You have found the key to unlock Moslem hearts—to
_trust_ us.”

“Surely it is with nations as with individuals, the man who trusts and
is deceived will yet prevail over his deceiver, whatever temporary
profits that traitor may grasp. There can be no final conquest over
truth. That was my late father’s teaching, and if it has sometimes left
me an easy prey to liars and thieves, it has not killed my faith in
human nature or hurt my pride. Self-respect will always compel me to
treat every man as my friend.”

As we proceeded on our journey, one felt hourly more conscious of the
barrier that has been so unwisely set up between the Allies and Angora.
As railway and telegraphic communications had been cut off, news was not
only delayed, but distorted beyond recognition. One only marvels that
some grave disaster has not arisen from such confused reports, apparent
contradictions, stern threats, and frequent misunderstandings. It would
seem as if the Allied Commissioners had no desire to keep in touch with
this “little Republic of the Mountains.”

In all my wanderings I have never experienced such an overpowering sense
of isolation. For me there have been no “personal” communications from
Europe since October. That “English letters are not accepted in
Anatolia,” that all my friends’ news will be returned to them marked
“Service suspended” or “cannot be reached,” may explain the facts but
does not make them easier to bear. When homeless dogs howl and whine
outside my bedroom window, superstitions will intrude—dread of disaster
to distant friends.

There is, however, another and far more cheering side to our experiences
on the road. The “stranger within the gates” is still a sacred person to
these peasants, even although from an “enemy” land. There was absolutely
no sign of hostility all along the line, but everywhere the greatest
kindness. One and all gave me the gracious Eastern welcome, in
picturesque phrases, commending me to the care of Allah; these
“fanatics” from whom mere murder was the smallest evil I had been told
to expect!

Though we had started, through no fault of our own, without any
provision for food, I did not anticipate any serious inconvenience on
this account. In these hospitable countries I knew we had only to name
our need. The cheik, indeed, had been presented with two large baskets
of food by his disciples, and also carried a picturesque terra-cotta
water-pot, which he could refill whenever we stopped to alight.

“Eat, my children,” said he, “and when all is finished, the Lord will
provide.”

“What a feast from the Song of Solomon,” I exclaimed, as the contents of
his basket were disclosed—pomegranates, spices, nuts, helva (i.e., honey
and nut-cheese), raisins, and bread!

One is grateful for these slow trains that afford such ample opportunity
for seeing the country, with its fig-trees, olives, and palms, and the
bright sun bringing a climate that recalls the South of France. Yet
everywhere, long before we reached the actual devastations, one felt
that despair and sadness were hovering over the land. At first, we
sought in vain for the reason of our impressions. Then suddenly I knew:
There were no cattle.

Of course, Mrs. de. C—— had told me, they had all been brought into
Smyrna by the Greeks. Outside her house mules were being sold for
fourpence or sixpence apiece, and if no purchaser could be found even at
that figure, the wretched creatures were left mutilated on the wayside,
their eyes burnt out, their legs broken by hatchets!

Our first halt was at Manissa, once a flourishing town of about ninety
thousand inhabitants, standing some sixty-five kilometres above
sea-level. The Governor and all the “notables” were on the platform to
welcome the travellers, and had arranged that the “train should wait,”
for us to be shown round.

Some kind of most primitive carriage had been produced from somewhere,
and we were driven through more “ruins” to the “temporary” town hall for
the inevitable coffee and cigarettes. In the best English, the governor
told us of Greek atrocities and the victory of M. Kemal Pasha,
introducing us also to his whole staff.

I asked whether it would be possible for me to obtain precise figures of
the devastations, and he promised they should be prepared for my use at
once. When I reminded him of the “waiting” train, he merely waived such
difficulties aside as a “secondary consideration,” begging me “not to
mention it.”

Naturally, I found one ruined town very like another. There was, in a
sense, little to see beyond “parts of” the mosques, badly scorched or
half-burnt minarets, and, at Manissa, no more than one thousand houses
standing out of fourteen! Also, the statistics reveal a heartrending
loss of life!

The women and children, I learnt, had been driven into the mosques,
which were surrounded by machine-guns to ensure against any possibility
of escape, and _then_ set on fire. As the full realisation of such
hideous barbarity took hold of my imagination, it was as if all my
senses were paralysed. That cold perspiration which so often precedes a
faint, seized my limbs. I was powerless either to speak or move. How
would our twentieth century appear to the old cave-dwellers it has
pleased us to call savage? Mrs. de C—— was right, indeed, to say that
the Turks were “moderate.” Such scenes must compel revenge and let loose
the worst passions of men.

On our return the cheik tactfully endeavoured to distract our thoughts
by hospitable preparations for lunch. However little one felt disposed
to eat, he could have devised no kinder or more wise expression of
sympathy and understanding. Unfortunately, we had not yet escaped the
company of swarming flies, which afterwards vanished, however, with
startling completeness, when the train climbed into colder altitudes.

Our next halt was at Kassaba, where the “notables” again paid us a
visit, offering _both_ coffee and tea, one after the other. When the
cheik mentioned the loss of our food, _and_ my partiality for fruit, a
messenger was at once sent into the town for bread and the most luscious
melons, which reach to the highest possible perfection in Anatolia. I
have always been grateful for Turkish fruit!

The Governor told me “he had simply _nowhere_ to house the poor people.”
He “dare not think” of how they could pass the winter! I _saw_ them,
sitting in holes among the ruins, cooking whatever they had been able to
scrape together for a meal; the women huddled together in the “beds” of
fountains which were covered with straw and carpets, after the water had
been drained out. This arrangement permitted the slight protection of an
awning, only too badly needed for their threadbare clothes!

There seems no way of coping with the emergency, since they had no tools
for even the most primitive building. Except for those lucky enough to
secure one of the few booths in the town, the shopkeepers had to set out
their stock upon the cobblestones!

I dare not ask how many babies had died of cold. Anatolia has been bled
white through twelve years of war! Whatever the nation’s quarrel, it was
from hence were taken father, or brother, or son. Yet still, beside
these shivering women, you see long train-loads of more soldiers,
cattle-trucks full of human beings, called to some new “front.”

How is it these women can, even now, tenderly hush “the cry of the
children,” and give their men? Theirs is a “willing” sacrifice for an
ideal, the freedom and independence of the Fatherland.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I had been “protected” in advance, I found, by the authorities, who had
announced by telegram the arrival of “an American lady.” It was,
perhaps, perverse, even ungrateful, but I persisted in contradicting the
news at every stage. I would far sooner take all risks under my own flag
than falsely accept shelter beneath the “Stars and Stripes.” “I have no
dislike for America,” I assured those who assumed that explanation of my
obstinacy, “it simply does not happen to be my country, any more than
India is yours.... I have nothing but good to say of individual
Americans; the most charming people on the face of the earth.”

Nevertheless “I keenly resent the clamour of Mr. Morgenthau for ‘an
ideal republic of his own making on the banks of the Bosphorus, to be
backed by all that “Tammany” means in the U.S.A.’ I am for asking him,
then, to start by making an ‘ideal’ republic on the banks of the
Hudson.”

American oil-hunters are always boasting that _they_ never declared war
on Turkey. “You did not,” I have admitted, “but you urged, nay begged
and almost ordered, us to do it for you.... Your _Literary Digest_
printed at least one eloquent appeal to Great Britain for a ‘holy’ war
against the ‘unspeakable Turk’!” And if they resent my protest at being
called “an American,” I am convinced they would have done the same in my
place. They, too, have the virtue of national pride.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The train was held up once more for a little excursion to what had been
the prosperous town of Alaşehir, a well-wooded district with abundance
of fresh water. Here out of four thousand eight hundred houses only one
hundred remain, and the women and children have been simply wiped out!
Unfortunately, we had not time to visit the Hodja, who had found a quite
comfortable lodging in the trunk of an oak tree—a philosopher and a man
of letters. “I cannot live in a tub, like Diogenes, because I do not
possess a tub; but there is nothing wrong with this oak, which I suspect
will prove even warmer.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Everywhere, at Manissa and Kassaba—even at Salihli, with its houses
reduced to four!—we were invited to stay and “put up for the night!”
Here were about two hundred inhabitants surviving from two thousand five
hundred, and from fifteen to twenty families sleeping in the mosque.
Yet, they would “certainly arrange something,” and it needed all my tact
to refuse any more extended hospitality than tea and coffee, served on
the roof of one of their four houses, from which we could look down upon
the skeleton town. Apparently, these stricken people found some sort of
comfort in the mere idea of my having _seen_ their suffering, though
often enough I could not even find _words_ for the sympathy no one could
fail to feel.

Once more lunch in the train. Pomegranate seeds should be eaten one by
one, a slow process, but as the cheik says “it passes the hours!”

He apologised for the number of times I had been reminded of what in
Turkey they call “the work of the British ex-Premier.”

“I had to expect that,” I replied, “when I came to Anatolia; and it
gives me the chance of reminding the Turks what part was played by M.
Venizelos!”

He tactfully turned the conversation to Oxford, paying a very high
tribute to Mr. Asquith’s brilliant son: “A noble character, highly
intelligent and broad-minded. A victim of war we could ill afford to
lose!”

Association inevitably led to the question I must have been asked a
hundred times during my journey, “Why does Lloyd George hate us so
bitterly? How can he admire the Greeks?”

“He knows little of either,” I replied, “nothing, at any rate, from
personal observation of them in their own lands. We have first-class
Near-East specialists, no doubt; but his chief informants have been
nonconformist preachers, even more biassed than he. Nonconformity is the
traditional foe of the Turks. Their boasted ‘freedom of thought and
conscience’ does not extend to the Servants of the Prophet, and as they
once echoed Gladstone, to-day they echo Lloyd George.”

“And in America?” asked the cheik.

“Their church is an advertising agency. They have transformed ‘dissent’
to a ‘trust.’ Go to the States with an idea, and, if it pleases them,
they will ‘put it across’ like any other commodity, as a ‘cute’ business
proposition. With a colony of two million Greeks, and, maybe, as many
Armenians (whose exaggerated and unchecked ‘lamentations’ have full
Free-Church support), America will never give Turkey even a fair
hearing. You have read their ‘Press’?”

“Alas,” he answered, “I fear the East is losing its faith in the West.”

“Do not say that,” I answered. “Men like you, who have known us at our
best, must declare that to-day’s madness is but a phase. Tell us these
things should never have been and shall not continue. Write as you _can_
write, and teach the people of Europe to be once more themselves.

“When East and West shake hands again, there will be peace, and peace we
_must have!_”


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                               CHAPTER IX

 MORE IMPRESSIONS—“SITTING AMIDST AN ARMY OF SUPPOSED SAVAGE FANATICS,
                     DEBATING THE GREATNESS OF GOD”


THE train is slowly crawling up the heights, the air grows colder and
colder, we put on wrap after wrap, and, all of a sudden, not a fly to be
seen!

The scenery, meanwhile, seems more desolate at every mile we pass. The
horribly systematic destruction has overlooked nothing, and every
village is in ruins. The corn, so carefully hidden in pits, has been
burned; the water, on which life itself depends, has been polluted; the
peasants are vainly digging in search of the hard-earned paper money,
savings which they had buried beneath the soil, only to turn up a few
black cinders! Even the trees have been nearly all razed to the ground.

There is nothing you can tell me about the “devastated areas” in France,
for I have visited every inch of the ground; but there the people could
move on to the next villages, and were not imprisoned among the ruins. I
would not minimise German atrocities, but they did not fill the churches
with women and children before firing them! The wholesale destruction of
villages and of cattle is not “legitimate warfare,” but this butchering
of women has put the Greek outside the pale of civilisation.

“They have left us the sunset,” I could only murmur, “this marvellous
panorama of which one never tires.” The desolation, indeed, lends it a
double wonder. Why cannot men, too, die in glory?

The railway line has been cut at Gunhani. Here, no doubt, the Governor
has been instructed not only to welcome us with every comfort—tea,
coffee, and statistics—but to find us beds which do not exist!

We are travelling in the dark, since the sun has deserted us. Every now
and again the officer flashes out his little electric lamp to see that
all is well. The feelings of my fellow-passengers must be murderous, for
have I not kept the train waiting all along the line, so that we are
even later than normal Turkish management would have made us? But I can
detect no black looks.

In the pitchy darkness, as the train slows down for the last time,
before its immediate “return” journey, ragged figures are seen crowding
the station. Their turbans are brightly coloured, despite the dirt and
rain to which they have been exposed; their clothes are mere “shreds and
patches”; they have fashioned themselves picturesque slippers of straw.
Like the grotesque figures of some stage chorus from no man’s land, they
dart about us on every side, each man seizing upon some one article of
luggage. If I express anxiety about my possessions, the cheik bids me
“fear not. God is with us. All is well, and in a short while we shall
remember this discomfort but as a page of history.” It was a lesson
against worry I never forgot—the secret of Islam’s suffering in silence!

Stumbling over a stony and dangerous roadway, we at last reach a tent on
the side of the mountains, which has been prepared for us by the reserve
officers. We must sit on the cheik’s trunks and prayer-carpets, for the
ground is damp and mists enfold us. My chivalrous friend insists on
wrapping about me his shawl, his scarf, finally his long coat. “I do not
feel the cold as you do,” he declares as I try to protest; but the touch
of his hand contradicts the kind words.

In the distance we could see a few hill-fires and the torches of
night-wanderers as we enjoyed our evening meal. But no sooner had I
begun to wonder how many hours must pass before our experience became
history, than, behold, a gust of wind tore up the prop of our tent and
buried us in confused _débris_.

There was nothing for it but to extract ourselves and sit _upon_ instead
of _beneath_ the shelter that had been found for us. The cheik bravely
proceeded to delight me with all the wisdom of his religious philosophy
while the officer went in search of help. I have done strange things in
strange lands, but I wonder what would British “authority” say to this?
An unarmed, but fearless, Englishwoman in the damp, cold mists, waiting
through the dark night for her “discomfort to become history,” amidst an
army of supposed savage fanatics, and debating the greatness of God!
Truly, the Unknown bears strange offspring.

Little darts of light, no bigger than glowworms, are now everywhere
moving up and down the steep paths through the black mist.

It is not easy for the swiftest of native messengers to track the
“hidden” official of the mountains. Yet they seem to slip over the dark
ways like birds, carrying their message and returning while you are
wondering if they have yet started upon the road. Men have been
despatched, like carrier-pigeons, in all directions, and we soon hear
that the commandant, two hours away, has set out to find us, and we are
to walk as far as we can to meet him.

Once more the long procession, carrying its shawls and cushions, bags
and water-pots, is marching in hope of a night’s repose. In a little,
however, from somewhere, “orders” come in to “halt, and prepare the lady
a bed.”

Behold, it is done. Two boxes are found to support a wooden plank,
_beneath_ which the cheik will find some measure of rest for his weary
limbs, though he has given me his prayer-mat for mattress, his
attaché-case for a pillow and, against my express command, nearly all
the wraps in his possession. Under such conditions one does not
“undress” for the night; but rather contrives every possible addition to
the number of thick woollen garments normally required in these climes.
The officer has not even a rug to protect him from the damp earth, and I
find words strong enough to resist the loan of his coat.

Alas! I am not, after all, a true Eastern. My philosophy will not bring
sleep. Never since the days when the awful stream of gassed men were
being carried into the hospital, have I listened to such a terrible
chorus of coughs. There is little enough “quiet in sleep” on these
saturated clay mounds, although I no longer hear the Nationalist Anthem
and other patriotic strains, to the accompaniment of a piping flute,
which had been rising about me in the evening air.

Probably the cold that seemed almost beyond endurance, did not really
master me for long, as all these numbing horrors were lost in
unconsciousness before the dawn.

I am awakened at last by the officer who ventures to “shake the
sleeper,” being seriously alarmed, he tells me, by my pale looks. There
is a most welcome glass of hot tea, and a fire! A mingling of German and
Turkish assail my ears, while from the distance I hear a silver voice
calling the “faithful” to prayer. Here is a free translation from the
cheik, of the muezzin’s words: “Get up, you lazy fellows, rise, make
your ablutions, and praise God for His goodness.”

I can only repeat “praise God,” though in face of what we have seen even
these words seem almost mockery.

“God is great,” said the holy man, “but man will not understand His
greatness. God loves the East, whence came thought, philosophy, and
faith. The Christ we, too, venerate, came from the East. Yet the West
has given us nought but injustice. You who love the East, pray for
tolerance and understanding between all peoples.”

The muezzin has awakened all the soldiers in the mountains. One could
fancy a scurry of rabbits from the hidden tents. They are fetching water
for the ablutions, and I, too, must wash me—in eau de Cologne. The blood
flowing into my numbed limbs forces a cry I cannot stifle. “That is what
happens when a woman goes out to war,” I said with a laugh, for the
officer confessed that I had given him some anxious moments.

Yet another cup of tea outside the now stifling tent, over the exquisite
violet-tinted fumes of a charcoal fire—deadly poison, maybe, but
harmless so long as you do not _know_.

The ablutions, a religious rite, are performed here in couples—one
pouring the water into the other’s hands, that he may wash his face
three times, carefully going over the ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. When
he, in his turn, pours the water for his companion.

The cheik tells me Moslem custom demands the body _must_ be clean,
though the clothes may not be free from dirt. If only the morning
“ablutions” were part of our Christian creed, what a difference they
would make to the comfort, _par exemple_, of Naples!

All now lay down their “carpets,” and proceed to prayer. To-day, indeed,
many must manage with the bare earth. What an inspiring picture it
is—the absolutely unselfconscious absorption of the humble and prostrate
Turk before his God! There is, surely, a sense of shame to the true
Christian for some of his own brethren in the sight of reverence so
natural and so devout.

                  *       *       *       *       *

My enthusiasm, unfortunately, does not extend to the steaming dish of
most sustaining breakfast-soup, compounded of flour and vinegar and egg.
One or two sips of the tonic are enough a send me to dry bread and a
glass of tea—about my tenth since dawn!

All around us, though not yet in their uniforms, are scattered the
future soldiers of the new Citizen State, ready and eager, poor fellows,
for their fifty miles march a day, on coffee and bread, or even on bread
and water!

By what right do we ask such things from the sons of women? That, cut
off from every pleasure, all joy in God’s world, they should spend their
days in war and prayer! They seem happier, somehow, than those of us who
have travelled and seen the world, who must think and judge for
ourselves, wondering at last what is Truth or Justice, where are the
profits of self-sacrifice? Love and joy are, after all, but the
“negatives” of grief and hate. Abolish the dark couple, and you will
gain the light.

For the moment, however, the soldiers of to-morrow are content. They
have never tasted alcohol; miserably clad, without proper clothing or
shelter, they sit about us expressionless and resigned—singing hymns of
joy that sound far more like a funeral dirge. There is no need for
thought, since they are ready to die for their fatherland, their leader,
their faith.

Yet, though they know I come from an “enemy” country, there is no
kindness and consideration they will not extend to a woman who trusts
them. Where is the Bolshevism of those who have lifted me over every
step of mud, and are even now girding their loins to carry me onwards
for forty miles? Will _they_ massacre, who, at my bidding, would lay
them down for me to walk over were I to make such an idle request? Fear
belongs to those _responsible_ for England’s injustice. They, indeed,
among these people, _would_ be torn limb from limb and trampled on unto
death.

We have no horses or anything on four legs to draw the loaded wagonette,
that must now carry the cheik and myself, in addition to its usual cargo
of food and varied wrappings. I have, certainly, had “smarter” escorts
than the men now drawing our “equipage,” but never any with kinder
hearts.

There is no thought here of payment for service. Money is firmly
refused; and from those who have, and seek, absolutely nothing for
themselves, such a welcome could not fail to touch the most callous of
human beings. How is it that all Europe declares no one can “manage”
these simple folk? My own receipt for life with the Moslem—of mere
courteous consideration and unquestioning trust—has been repaid with
compound interest a thousand times!


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                               CHAPTER X

       A JOURNEY ON FOOT—A COUNTRY MADE BY GOD, UNTOUCHED BY MAN


IT is not given to many in this enlightened twentieth century to travel
in a country as God made it, almost untouched by man. Upon the road from
Gunhani I saw no signs of man’s handiwork, save a few miles of
Deacoville, a tunnel, and the primitive carts of Anatolia. These are
made from a few logs nailed together, and fastened to two wheels, cut
solidly out of a block of wood. Their continuous squeak does not seem
out of keeping with the primitive surroundings, and may be regarded as
an “accompaniment” to the peasant’s songs.

The story is told of a “benevolent” American whose imagination was fired
by the project of turning this land into a “new America.” He would
subject the fertile soil to “intensive” cultivation and smother it with
sky-scrapers. So he persuaded a Turk to come over to “God’s own country”
(as man has made it) and study the United States.

His guest, however, refused to admire, took passage for home at the
earliest possible opportunity, and informed his friends that, “having
now seen man’s ‘best’ country, he would never again leave God’s.”

Nevertheless, in the Western mind these wide stretches of waste land
among the beautiful mountains, beneath a cloudless sky, cannot fail to
rouse a longing to break the silence by a “little emptying of our
crowded towns.” The women and old men _are_ digging, sowing, and
cultivating, with but slight return for their heavy labour; now that the
young are all “wanted” for defence.

“One day we _shall_ have peace,” said I to our carriers, and they
murmured “_Inch Allah!_” Turning my wish to prayer, I could only repeat,
“We _shall_ have peace.”

As often as I can persuade them to rest, I seize the chance of telling
them about England. When I mention our great Moslem King George they
naturally confuse him with Lloyd George. And, later, “if your King loves
his Moslem subjects, as you say he does, why does he permit his Minister
to remain?” I assure them that he will not, and their faces brighten as
they cry: “There will be peace, then.”

As we plunge into the tunnel, about a kilometre long, our men raise
strange howls which echo around us with the most weird effect; but we
are in darkness that can be felt, and anyone coming unwarned in an
opposite direction, which is _downhill_, could scarcely avoid a crash.
As it happens, there is an engineer on the line. Our men lift off his
wagonette and replace it, further down, than ours.

I marvelled that they had sufficient strength for the job, living on
coffee and bread. Meanwhile, our flashlight revealed Turkish ladies
walking along the tunnel without a glimmer of light to guide them, who
made their way by a continuous beating of sticks upon the wall.

In this strange land, one is not afraid! I think of all the alarm my
journey excited in Smyrna, and am more than ever convinced that I _only_
need an interpreter. If I knew the language, I would go alone and
without fear! Primitive people in Turkey have a high code of honour.
They would not steal a penny, they will not even accept what I offer to
pay. Though he would tear to pieces an enemy of his country, the Turk
would stand between me and danger, for he knows I am a friend.

At last we are out of the tunnel, stretching our legs with relief in the
open air. Suddenly a strange sound breaks on our ears from the
mountains. As we stop to listen, we hear someone calling upon us to
“Halt! You must go no further!” I remember—this day, they had told me,
there would be “war”! A strange figure seems to be hopping down the
mountains, about 800 metres in height, which proves to be the
_Commandant de la Place_. He had arrived at our tent very late the night
before, and left me a “message of welcome.” Is he now bringing the
terrible news the war has begun? No. Only offering us hospitality.

He had not expected us to start so early, and apologised for “calling in
his nightgown”—the only alternative to letting us pass his “inhospitable
doors.” I begged that I might take a photograph, and, leaving all our
belongings upon the wayside, we readily set out to climb the mountain,
while he shouted the news of our approach to hasten the preparations of
his wife. As a matter of fact, the difficulties of the ascent were quite
sufficient to give her ample time; and when we reached the house at
last, the pure, fresh air (that struck cold in spite of the brilliant
sunshine) inspired a hearty welcome to “rest” after so stiff a climb!

The commandant (who is richly bronzed by outdoor life in the sun) seemed
quite content with his two-roomed cabin among the hills, though one
could sense the tragic experiences he would never obtrude. Three of his
children had perished from cold and hardship, and I caught anxious
glances towards the two remaining, fine, sturdy-looking little creatures
as they were. His mother-in-law, busily intent on grinding the corn,
bore further witness to their hidden struggles.

I was immediately given a chair; a mattress was found for the cheik, and
once more we learned that in this country you are expected to have some
coffee _before_ a glass of tea, and then roasted almonds and
melon-seeds. I like to think it was the children who decorated their
little cat’s ears with pink tassels in our honour, much to the animal’s
annoyance. While the pig had been also “decorated,” to _his_ intense
delight!

Madame retired immediately on our arrival; but when “tea” was finished,
I begged that she might join us. Though veiled and shy, she came. Then
she and her husband brought their outes (a Turkish guitar played with a
feather) and sang to us without any restraint.

We stayed with them so many hours that, at last, I began to fear I was
expected to make the first move. At three o’clock I asked the cheik when
we were going to continue our journey, and he quickly answered: “When
you please”—confirming my suspicions.

I was now informed that we should probably be too late for the one train
in the day, and have to face a journey of many hours in bullock-wagons,
drawn perhaps by mules. No one even hinted that I was to blame; yet no
one would have dreamt of being so rude as to tell me that it was _my_
place to break up the party!

The line from Smyrna to Angora had been cut at Gunhani, as had the line
from Haïdar Pasha at Bilidjik and Kara-Keuy.

From Gunhani we had to reach Afioun-Karahissar as we best could, partly
by Deacoville, then by ox-wagon and luggage trains to Ouchak and on to
Afioun. The railway bridge destroyed at Gunhani was a fine example of
French engineering, which went right over the mountains, from eight
hundred to a thousand feet high. It will take years to rebuild. The
Turks do not complain, and have cheerfully accepted the terrible
discomfort to passengers and goods traffic, with their usual philosophy.
“The destruction of an important railway,” as they calmly remark, “is
legitimate warfare and first-class strategy.”

We could realise, however, what the disaster really _meant_, as we
climbed down, without the help of any kind of pathway, from the
commandant’s little house on the steep hills. Once on the road we took
an ox-wagon, drawn by mules, for what was still little better than a
mountain track, to the nearest point of the railway that was in order,
in the direction of Afioun-Karahissar. Unable, like the cheik or any
Oriental, to sit on my legs, I had to let them hang over the side of our
wagon.

This scurrying down from the commandant’s house was not “a picnic!” Our
fearless drivers and their marvellously sure-footed beasts, could not
prevent our being flung from side to side of the springless cart,
holding on for dear life. Sometimes the officer had to spring out and
push from behind to save us from falling backwards.

The telegraph wires, of course, were also cut; but the rapidity with
which messengers are able to run and leap over these ragged mountain
ways enabled them to bring news _back_ to us, of the quickest way to
find a train, in an incredibly short time.

[Illustration:

  IN AN OX WAGON.
  “Unable to sit on my legs, I have to let them hang over the side of
    our wagon.”
]

I had found it a herculean task to reach, and return, from our resting
place on the hill-top. The bullock-cart seemed to find it scarcely
_less_ difficult to manipulate the narrow and broken roadway. Yet the
Turkish soldiers had _somehow_ found means and strength to heave their
heavy artillery over these awe-inspiring passes, from which one slip of
the foot meant instant death.

There was, naturally, “nothing doing” at the station till very late that
night, when we should have to pass the dark hours in a luggage train.
Just before it was due to start, however, the Governor arrived with
sardines, fruit, and bread, of which we managed to make a good dinner
“on board,” actually our first meal that day, except for the
commandant’s almonds.

A chair was found for me in the empty carriage, but others had to sit on
the floor. We had candles and, by some means, word was sent in advance
of our approach. They tell me it is quite a short journey, but I cannot
help wishing that we had been able to stay in the bullock-carts.

Through that strange night—not so cold, indeed, as yesterday—we seemed
to crawl on one mile and then shunt back two, to an awful accompaniment
of clanging metal that made it impossible to sleep. I had only to close
my eyes for a moment and our train was certain to be violently thrown
back. Really, I thought my head would be shaken off my body.

As always, the cheik made heroic efforts to wile away the dark hours and
distract my mind. There was no question I could ask him about Islam in
vain. Here is the best I can reproduce of that fascinating lesson in
faith and philosophy delivered in a luggage train by night:

“The very word _Obedience_ (_i.e._ Islam) is contrary to all Bolshevist
ideas, just as Bolshevism itself is contradicted by the Reign of Terror
in Russia. Islam teaches the ‘preservation of property,’ Bolshevism
destroys it. Verily, the Turks must have passed through sorrow and
tribulation before they could ever have felt any temptation to ally
themselves with the Russia of to-day. Yet the Soviet has helped us in
our time of need, and we owe our fidelity to the alliance.”

I spoke of the vast sums paid out by Russia to Abdul Hamid to maintain
enmity between the Turks and Great Britain.... “That you have made
friends with your hereditary enemy surely means grave peril to India.”

“So we all feel,” answered the cheik. “But we can never forget the shock
to the Moslem world of the ‘rumour’ that Constantinople (the seat of
Caliphat) would be handed over to Russia. England had gone back on her
word and lost our respect for ever. Henceforth we could be deceived no
longer. We were cyphers, mere pawns, on the political chess-board of the
Powers. The principles of Islam were distorted without hesitation to
prove that no Christian peoples could live unmolested under Turkish
rule. How could Great Britain be so blind to the unbounded respect she
had earned from Islam by her fine tolerance of _all_ religions in India?
Now she has ‘changed all that,’ and the war in the Near East was a
_religious_ war.”

When I attempted to frame some excuses for the pro-Greek attitude of the
British Government, he reminded me of our “old pride in Moslem
allegiance. You have more Moslem than Christian subjects.... Is not your
Prime Minister, Mr. Lloyd George, a democrat? Where can he find more
perfect democracies than in the East, under Moslem rule? It is a ‘new’
ideal in the West. When President Wilson began to preach it, he was
derided as a Utopian, because he was three centuries ahead of his time!
Every Moslem has _always_ been equal before the law—the Sultan stands
_with_ his subjects.”

“That does not quite ‘explain’ Abdul Hamid,” I said.

“He was the exception we shall never repeat. You cannot argue from
exceptions.... It is the English who have ceased to value the precepts
of Islam. The Koran bids us obey those in authority. Rather than rebel,
we leave the country.”

“And M. Kemal Pasha? Has he not rebelled?”

“No, indeed. He simply defended his country, deposed the
vassal-traitor-Sultan.... M. Kemal Pasha rules direct from the Koran. He
will have strength to set aside the heresies of the Byzantines that have
been grafted on to our Government. It is nonsense to say that the Koran
has been found unfitted for the requirements of the twentieth century.”

“There, I fear, I must plead guilty.”

“You will see, when you have stayed among us a little longer, that it
can be honestly interpreted to meet man’s present needs.”

“The freedom of women——?”

“The ‘seclusion’ comes from Byzantium. M. Kemal will change that, if
only he does not himself make a foolish marriage.”

“How do you mean—foolish?”

“A princess. We attribute Enver’s downfall to his having married a
princess. He then required money to maintain his ‘royal’ position; we do
not inquire from whence it came! If M. Kemal Pasha follows his example
we shall lose faith in his democracy.”

“And a foreigner?”

“That is almost as bad. The helpmeet of _our_ choice for him should be
one who would help the country to progress along Eastern lines, not
Western. Rather a peasant than a foreigner or a princess.”

“I hope he may find one with the intelligence of Halidé Hanoum, and with
her womanly charm. To me she seems wholly delightful. She can advance,
and remain a woman, as our Anglo-Saxon reformers have seldom done.”

“We shall see; but you must make no mistake. You imagine that women ‘do
not count’ in the East, yet I assure you a foolish marriage for M. Kemal
Pasha would be a national disaster.”

“I wish you were not so much against British rule.”

“I must face facts. You have been doing strange things here for the last
twenty-three years. We do not object to you because you are rulers, but
to the way in which you now rule. In Islam all the faiths co-operate.
Israel has its place, and we venerate Christ no less than our Prophet.
It is the same in England itself, yet the very men whom you receive in
your London drawing-rooms are spoken of in Egypt and India as
‘natives.’”

“Neither can I understand that.” I agreed.

“No, _you_ would not; but, if you really want to know the truth, we are
discouraged and hurt. How can your Empire accept your ex-Premier’s
pro-Greek campaign after his _glorious_ speeches in support of
democracy?”

“The more I think about it,” said I, “the less I understand.”

“Well, the consequences for us are black. We were so long content to
pass our days in confidence that all was well with British at the helm.
Now we are watching with anxious eyes; only we pray that the ‘to-morrow’
which all good Moslems desire, may yet come with M. Kemal Pasha. I have
sons, who must all be soldiers, since we no longer trust the West.”

“Will they be educated in England, at Oxford?”

“No, alas! They are in Germany. They must learn to put the
responsibilities of citizenship before sport. They must not associate
with men who might afterwards settle in Egypt and call them ‘niggers.’”

These were bitter truths for my pride in England.

The cheik, by the way, was born in Egypt, and regarded as a dangerous
Moslem foe! I wonder if that can in any sense justify his exile from his
native land?

As he tells me: The victory of M. Kemal is the direct result of an
attempt to express the spirit of nationalism, which will not be kept
down. For the first time Moslems have adopted the Nationalist appeal. If
that fail, you will be confronted by a Pan-Islam uprising. The eyes of
all Moslem are on Turkey. Strike her, who is Islam’s head, and every
limb will rise in protest against the blow.

“As a man of God,” I protested, “you have no right to speak of war.
There must _not_ be war.”

“When responsible British Ministers refer to Salonika as the Gate of
Christendom, we can no longer stand aside.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

The Governor and all the “notables” of Ouchak were on the platform as
our luggage train arrived “in state.” When they invited us to stay the
night, I accepted at once, without giving anyone else the chance to
refuse. After three days and two nights on the road, I could not forego
the luxury of a wash and a change of clothes, or the chance to brush and
comb out my hair!


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                               CHAPTER XI

          A PUBLIC MEETING AT OUCHAK—HOSPITALITY—A SACRED RITE


AT Ouchak, I frankly declined to spend another night in a luggage train.
I admired the Turks’ resourcefulness in coping with the extremely
limited service of trains—the women inside a luggage-van and the men on
the roof. I do not regret the fact that I have probably endured even
more discomfort than other European visitors to Angora, since I have
attempted and achieved more. But for the moment it seemed really
essential to pause and rest.

We were told they had only one private train car on _this_ side of the
break in the line, which had been reserved for the Minister of Finance,
whom we should probably soon meet. Engines were terribly “short,” and
most of the trains had been burnt by Greeks.

The Governor drove us to the house of one of the wealthiest men in the
town, once the headquarters of King Constantine. Our host proved to be a
mere lad of twenty, who was nevertheless directing a large carpet
factory which had partially escaped destruction, with considerable
efficiency and skill.

Thanking us with graceful dignity for the honour of our visit, he gave
immediate direction for our reception in his noble guest-chamber. He
apologised for the bareness of rooms, rifled by Greeks; but, in my
judgment, the rich and wonderful carpets were furniture enough.

As M. Kemal Pasha had taken over the house from King Constantine, our
host asked me, in joke, whose “bed” I would choose! I naturally at once
replied M. Kemal’s. “Ah no,” said he, “you must not decide without
seeing both.”

Being always afraid of air-raids, the Greek sovereign had taken an
underground suite, certainly arranged with great taste and every
attention to creature comfort. Lit and heated by electricity, the
arrangements closely resembled a German trench. M. Kemal Pasha had slept
on the first, or top, floor, and as I like to think, under my white
satin covering, worked with irises. It was a proud moment for our
host—that _I_ should occupy a bed already honoured by M. Kemal!

I told him how at Gerbervilliers Sœur Julie once let me sleep in a bed
previously occupied by Cardinal X., and even conferred on me the supreme
honour of using his Eminence’s sheet! That “last touch,” said my host,
he, “unfortunately, could not repeat. The Pasha’s sheets!—well, they
were not _here_.”

We soon sat down with the Governor, the Mayor, and other “notables,” to
a well-cooked meal of Turkish delicacies, supervised by our host
himself. My only criticism of Turkish dishes is based on their
“fattening” qualities, and the pleasure in flavours which tempt one to
over-eat.

More “notables” appeared for an afternoon reception, in strange and
picturesque costumes: Deputies, hodjas, and judges. How I longed to
borrow that judge’s saxe-blue silk robe for a dressing-gown; but,
knowing that he would “give” me anything for which I expressed a fancy,
my honour sternly forbade the request! Everyone had left their shoes on
the mat, and sat in their stockinged feet. My muddy boots were a
disgrace.

They all talked Nationalism, overjoyed by the recent victories and, I
cannot deny, bitter against Great Britain.

I was invited to a big “Nationalist” meeting, to be held that night at
the Young Men’s Club, and was only too glad to have the chance of
answering the questions I knew they would want to put. It is always wise
to encourage our critics to air their grievances.

We were conducted up a rickety staircase to a large room thick with
smoke. The men were all wearing kalpaks, and evidently puzzled at first
by the “Englishwoman in their midst.” Some of them smiled, others
plainly showed their surprise, and others just stared.

After the cheik had opened the meeting in a very few words, our host
rose to explain my presence. He told them that I had come to Angora
entirely on my own responsibility, because, though our authorities
called it “brink of war,” I wanted to convince the Turks that we should
not _have_ war.

Then, with the Governor as my interpreter, I begged them “to believe
that Mr. Lloyd George’s policy was _not_ the policy of the English
people. He had only followed Gladstone in _this_ matter, and he had been
led astray by M. Venizelos. No other Englishman would make war on
Turkey, and we, the people, were therefore determined upon his fall.”

“_Inch Allah_,” cried the people.

Then I said that “whether our Conservatives or Labour men followed Mr.
Lloyd George, it would make no difference to them. Both parties are all
for peace. I was not Turkey’s only friend in Great Britain. We who knew
were all hard at work for peace.”

It was a strange meeting! Did the Governor really translate what the men
actually said? Some were obviously filled with anger, though
“_saura-saura_ and Mr. Lloyd George” was all I could catch. The Governor
interpreted, “The speaker does not approve of Mr. Lloyd George’s
policy.”

“Nor do I,” I replied, which made them all laugh heartily.

“In any case,” I concluded, “there is not going to be war. It is
contrary to all reason, and we have been enemies long enough! We are
going to be great friends now.”

I answered a host of questions, which, however, the Governor had
softened in his interpretation to avoid hurting my feelings.

Finally my host invited the audience to express their appreciation of
the visit from an Englishwoman, who had persisted, against such terrible
odds, in coming to give them so much “news” from Great Britain; and the
old wooden roofs echoed to their cheers and clapping.

Maybe the British Government would scarcely have approved our meeting;
but there are many people in England who take a different view; and as I
told the people, “I had been seven years on the French front (a real
slice out of one’s life) and I knew what war meant. I will not believe
our men are going to be led to war again. However our politicians may
talk, whatever hysteria may be printed in the Press, we have sound,
practical reasons for friendship. There is nothing in the Nationalist
Pact to which Great Britain can seriously object; nothing, certainly, to
justify the shedding of blood on either side.”

After the meeting we drove back to our comfortable quarters, and talked
long into the night over tea and cigarettes. Too tired to sleep, I told
my host if once I dozed off there would be no waking me “this side of
anytime,” so I “let myself go” upon the glories of old England and the
fine traditions of our race—a subject my present companions were still
perfectly ready to applaud.

We passed on to America and her big Press. To their taste, British
journalism is “just dry bones—without a breath of life.” They must have
something picturesque, unrestrained by any considerations of taste or
possible hurt to the feelings of those concerned.

I told them of the strange pride with which an American dared to boast
of an “interview” with King Constantine. “His Majesty,” as the reporter
had written, “without asking me even to sit down, drew from his pocket a
handsome case and helped himself to a cigarette. He naturally did not
offer one to me.”

Constantine was, naturally, infuriated by the sarcastic implication, and
denied the “interview” altogether. The “man from the States” promptly
started an “action” against him, and withdrew it, once he had thus
secured far more publicity (which means dollars) than all the
“interviews” he might have secured with deposed royalties, would ever
have brought his way.

A lady compatriot of his, in the same spirit, once claimed to have
secured an “interview” with M. Kemal Pasha, and wrote that “he smoked
Player’s cigarettes.” When I told her friend that this was certainly
untrue, he said: “What matters! It was good copy.”

I was not, however, altogether surprised to learn that this “impression”
of Constantine was, most probably, quite true. All kinds of similar
stories were in circulation about the dead monarch, but the Turkish
officers were of opinion that, though as commander-in-chief he certainly
appeared to live underground, there was little he could be expected to
achieve with the army at his command. To be _fearless_ is a commandant’s
first duty, and for that quality they were as ready to praise the fallen
Djémal and Enver as M. Kemal Pasha himself. With all his faults and
mistakes, none could accuse Enver of fear.

My “lady’s maid” on this occasion proved to be a picturesque young
woman, dressed in very bright colours, wearing her hair in two long
plaits enclosed in a gay scarf. With the pleasant zeal of her race, she
squandered the whole contents of a beautiful Eastern water-jug in
“pouring them over my hands,” a process which used up all the water long
before I felt clean! And not even grease and eau-de-Cologne would drive
off half the effects of these terrible days from my face. It was a case
for Turkish baths. And Nazafer, my little maid, proved so timid and
gentle a hairdresser that I had to use some English “force” in this
direction when she had left me for the night.

Yet words cannot express the delight of this welcome change to all the
luxuries of civilisation. A blazing wood fire, a hot bottle, and the
generous supply of white satin cushions worked in a lovely iris design
on my vast, picturesque bed!

If the dogs outside could only accept their grievances with the silent
dignity of the East! As I peep through my lattice windows over the
half-ruined city, now bathed in the silver light of the new moon, I can
only marvel again that we hear scarcely a murmur from these suffering
people in their terrible distress. What do we want with this mutilated
country for which they are ready to die?

Here is the tale of a patriot that outstrips the wildest imagination to
have conceived. A certain woman, so poor that she had but one miserable
garment to protect her starving babe, catches sight of some “munitions”
that are lying near her, _exposed_ to the cold! She does not hesitate a
moment, but lifting her poor child’s only covering, carefully wraps it
round the “instruments of war.” Maybe the good God will send me another
child,” she whispered; “at all costs, my country must be saved!”

How dare we attempt to hamper these people’s freedom, bought at so dear
a price? Surely the future is _theirs_ to shape as they will.

When the morning is well advanced, and the sun is streaming upon me
through scarlet lace curtains, I am at last awakened from dreams of
burning cities to the alarms of war. Downstairs, sad and bewildered
faces almost convince me that actual hostilities have begun. But I am
now fully awake, and still refuse to believe.

“It is absolute nonsense,” I insist on telling them. “_My_ country is
_your_ friend.”

But even the optimism of our host had been shaken by the pessimist
newspaper reports. They all knew, however, that, if it _was_ war, I
should stay with them, and they would allow me to nurse our own
“men.”... It was not the “men” who would make war; and I gladly repeated
their high tributes to the fine soldierly qualities of the Turk, in
startling contrast to most Germans!

                  *       *       *       *       *

Our host himself superintended the preparation of my breakfast tray—eggs
and butter, honey and jam, fruits and cheese.

“You have sent me a grocer’s shop,” I exclaimed to him later, but he
waived aside my gratitude with a casual, “Don’t mention it.”

I reminded him that he had promised I should see “madame” and the baby.
“Could not she share our meal?” He said she was tired and really
preferred to rest. Was the excuse diplomatic?

He told me that almost immediately after their marriage (about a year
and a half ago, when she was only seventeen), they had “escaped” to
Rhodes, and it was only too likely their brief experience of home—such
as war had left them—would be once more cruelly interrupted. She,
unfortunately, did not speak French, but I could easily read in her
large, pathetic, dark eyes the excuses she strove to offer for what
would never have struck me as “inadequate” hospitality.

I tried to convey my deep sympathy to her husband. “You seem like a
couple of dear children,” I said, “just eager to make us all happy.”

“Every Turk,” he replied gravely, “must marry young. The country needs
children.”

M. Kemal Pasha entirely confirmed the curious impressions that this
household could not fail to produce on any visitor from Europe. It
almost made one think of Turkey as the social Antipodes. In England so
many women are now doing men’s work, in addition to their own. Here we
see men working for both sexes. I have no doubt the sweet little lady
had “prepared” everything in advance, but when we arrived, she felt it
becoming to disappear! It was our host, again, whom I had surprised in
the midst of his ministrations for a most excellent lunch!

The afternoon was spent in driving about the pillaged city, visiting our
host’s carpet-factory and a number of weaving-looms in private houses.
It is a privilege, indeed, to see all these treasures of beauty shaping
before one’s eyes. It must, I think, be a great relief for the “tired in
mind” to “get busy” about mechanical work. One’s fingers soon turn into
machines, weaving the wool in and out of the frame, cutting the pile,
the whole process of creating those wonderful Eastern “floorings” we all
admire. The making of even “high art” goods must rest the nerves, like
the “perpetual motion” of my Scotch mother’s knitting needles!

In the distance the cemetery looked like a large field, glaring with
poppies and cornflowers that it was puzzling to find so late in this
cold climate. As we approached, however, the picturesque scene proved to
come from dyed wool left to dry on the tombstones, which were,
themselves, of a turban-like shape.

In the market we were astonished to find how quickly trade had
recovered, almost to pre-war activity, since my last visit. Somehow they
have discovered tools and wood to patch up booths for the old business.

I told my companions I “hoped the people would soon be given material to
rebuild the whole town, that Europe would send money in admiring
recognition of their ‘already proven’ ability to help themselves.”

It seemed almost a “confessional” for me, as the officers and municipal
authorities, the deputies and the hodjas, plied me with question after
question, because they knew I would tell them all I could, and speak the
truth!

They brought me photographs—of cities in ruins, of mutilated and
disfigured human beings!—unfortunately too primitive for reproduction,
but no less invaluable as documentary evidence, almost too ghastly for
man to “look on and live”!

We drove also to the aviation ground and were shown what the officer in
charge had contrived to make of the cannon left by Greeks. Though
everything was systematically hacked to pieces, it had been all “put
together again” by the Turks with astonishing patience and perseverance.

Naturally proud of his work, and delighted to tell us how it had all
been managed, the officer, fortunately, quite forgot I was English. He
was telling us that he found a few French 75’s, but that most of the
guns were howitzers. Suddenly realising the need for caution, or rather
courtesy, he burst out: “Cannon, Lloyd George,” and won from us all the
most grateful and laughing applause.

I was further especially pleased with his outspoken pride in the Turkish
women aviators, of whom his own wife had been one. All honour to
them—from that Jeanne d’Arc of Turkey, Halidé Hanoum, to every woman who
had unloaded munitions from the boats and “done her bit” in the
factories!

He told us how women had watched for ships bringing munitions as for
angels of deliverance. How they toiled at the unloading and bore their
burdens with uncomplaining zeal. No man must lift a finger for work that
could possibly be undertaken by women. As M. Kemal Pasha says: “The
women have _done_ their part in saving the country, they must _have_
their share in governing it.”

It has always been supposed that France supplied most of these
munitions. But the Turks paid _us_ £5,000 sterling (at the present rate
of exchange) for a load of their own munitions that we had “picked up,”
and they bought arms from the English officers in Constantinople.
Further supplies, of course, were obtained from Frenchmen, Italians,
Russians, and, incredible as it may seem, from the Greeks themselves.
Turkey bought arms wherever she could, and set herself the grim task of
readjustment.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile, the Governor had been telegraphing for us in all directions
all day, for news of a train to take us on our way. All the services, of
course, were disorganised, and the line cut—a message from Smyrna to
Kassaba might take twelve days! We would not worry, or hope!

At about 9.30, we hear of another luggage train! It is not a long
journey from Ouchak to Afioun-Karahissar. We are now well supplied with
food and candles, a dilapidated deck-chair has been dug out for me, and
the cheik’s brilliant conversation will “make history” of the night.

I had managed to have a few words with our host’s wife before we left
the house. Her husband translating, she thanked me again and again for
my visit, and then, asking me to excuse her going to see an ailing
brother, she sailed away with her little babe in her arms. As she turned
smiling on us from the big gateway, I could not resist blowing a kiss to
the child-like and pathetic figure she made—for all the world like a
schoolgirl and her doll!

Towards evening, as we were preparing to leave our host, I caught sight
of a few tears rolling down his cheeks. Like an Englishman, he quickly
brushed them aside, and turned to me with a smile.

What had I said, or done? We had been skating on thin ice all the time.
I would never deliberately hurt anyone’s feelings, but I cannot resist a
joke, and, in a foreign language, there is danger of misunderstanding.

I found a chance of asking the cheik to tell me frankly if I had
unwittingly given any offence, for which I would be only too eager to
tender my sincere regret and apology. But he explained: Our host’s
brother-in-law had died during the night, and, not wishing to disturb
our entertainment, his wife had bravely set out alone to attend the
funeral.

So even the most intimate domestic sorrow was not permitted to interrupt
our enjoyment; the intrusion, as it _must_ be felt, of an unknown woman
from an enemy land!

I have never met, even in Turkey, such a fine spirit of hospitality.
_My_ tears could not be kept back. Here was a mere lad heaping coals of
fire on my head. Again and again the words sternly echoed in my brain:
“These things should never have been.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XII

          A LUGGAGE TRAIN—THE WORST STAGE OF MY WHOLE JOURNEY


WE are an hour late, the rain is pouring in torrents as I mount from a
Turk’s back to my now familiar “van”; the station is full of friends
crowding to witness our start and say farewell.

[Illustration:

  From a Turk’s Back.
]

After no more than an hour of what proved to be much the worst stage of
my whole journey, I was determined against any further dependence upon
“goods traffic.” I should infinitely prefer to walk. Our compartment, I
know, had not been chosen for comfort—there was no other to be had. But
the roof leaked, the doors would not shut, it was impossible to keep our
candles alight.

At every few kilometres there is a halt. After an hour and a half the
cheik and the officer are beyond words. Wrapped in rugs on the cold,
hard floor, they are soon fast asleep, and now peacefully snoring. I
should have thought myself that our continual joltings were enough to
wake the dead, but my friends, fortunately, seem able to sleep on,
pitched as they are every moment from side to side like long, shapeless
bundles of woollen stuff. I put my umbrella up and donned a mackintosh,
while our fellow-traveller, the Inspector of Forests, is no more able to
sleep than I, but does his best to relieve the monotony by smiling at me
(since we have no common language) whenever a candle is blown out and he
patiently relights it.

It was, perhaps, no more than subdued hysteria which suddenly drove me
to break the long silence with strange sounds of laughter that awakened
and clearly startled the cheik. After a little, I managed, somehow, to
explain my unseemly outburst.

The day before leaving Paris I had written to Lord Robert Cecil in
earnest endeavour to persuade that fine enthusiast for the League of
Nations that an international “Mother of Parliaments” could never
maintain its authority under suspicion of antagonism to Islam.
Therefore, I begged him to remove the stigma once and for all by going
to Angora himself. And now the picture had flashed into my mind of Lord
Robert, having responded to my suggestion, only to find himself being
rattled about beside me, under an open umbrella, on the floor of a
crawling luggage train in the black darkness of a wet night.

It was a relief just then for all of us to join in a good laugh; but the
policy of the League has not been helpful to Islam, and, in this matter,
its unnecessary mistakes—as I have again and again pointed out—will
prove a serious hamper to its otherwise splendid activities.

Meanwhile, our merriment is soon checked. Sudden shrieks from the engine
and an exceptionally generous supply of jolts and bangs conjure up to my
mind awful visions of a collision in the gruesome loneliness of the
night. The cheik, however, does not share my alarm, but calmly answers:
“Methinks we do but unrail!” To me, however, the prospect suggested of
ending my days in an Anatolian ditch, without even the covering of my
Union Jack, offers but poor consolation.

“Come, wake up,” I almost shouted, “it is too terrible! Someone _must_
talk to me about Islam.” And when I realised my own selfishness in not
leaving the poor man to sleep, I could only put forth the plea: “I am so
interested in your religion.”

“I am flattered indeed,” was the immediate response. “Religion in the
East is truly a real and living force.” At his grave words I saw again
that long line of weary soldiers among the mountains at their prayers.

“I shall wound your feelings,” I went on, “if I persist in questioning
you about the grievances of your people, though God knows my curiosity
is not idle.”

“It is far better to wound my feelings and publish the truth than to
suffer the slightest risk of your misjudging us. You may help to see us
righted, for Great Britain may have indeed ‘sinned in ignorance.’”

But my allusion to Lord Robert Cecil had raised the problem of
Christianity in the East. I had to admit that he was accused of working
for “union” between the Anglican and the Greek Churches. “He _is_ a
devout, loyal and energetic Anglican, but I refuse to believe that he
would ever encourage such criminal folly.”

“He is, indeed, too honourable,” replied the cheik. “That is only
another example of bringing politics into religion, which must kill
faith.”

“But does not Islam teach us that politics and religion are one?”

“No, indeed; that is a false, Western, interpretation of the Koran. It
is our work to-day to set free religion from the canker of all
statecraft.”

I could not resist interposing at this point with my conviction that no
_established_ Church can pursue wisdom; while the insecurity of our Free
Churches to-day must always “put brakes” on their power against the
Government, and “muzzle” the _real_ freedom of thought or truth.

When we got back to Greece, the cheik gave me chapter and verse for his
conviction that “if the Turks should allow the Greek Patriarch to remain
in Constantinople, their tolerance would have degenerated to mere
weakness.

“It was a golden dream for the Greeks, nearly realised; but it is not
for us to substantiate it.

“They were to drive us back into the depths of Asia Minor, to rule over
the peoples who had been their masters for five centuries, to recapture
the great ‘Bible’ towns for the Cross; to settle on the shores of
Marmora and Constantinople, that they might drive on to Rome!

“Their vision, assuredly, did not lack grandeur.

“It even seemed for a little that realisation might be achieved by zeal
and ardour, until King Constantine’s return provoked M. Briand’s famous
‘Note’ of November, 1920, and put an end to the dream.”

Here I uttered a word of regret that we had not then followed the policy
of the French “surely a course that might have saved us from all the
jealousy and suspicion we have so perversely incurred.”

The cheik replied indirectly by reminding me that M. Venizelos was not
to be quite so easily, or immediately, defeated: “A great, some say a
subtle and profound, personality, who had the _entrée_ to all the Courts
of Europe. He formed in himself a strong link between the Greek Colonies
and all the Powers, particularly England and America. He made British
friendship the pivot of ‘Greek Expansion.’ He was not a man to bow
before any discouragement or difficulty.

“Now he conceived the idea, attributed to Lord Robert Cecil, of union
between the two Churches, which at once enlisted the strong support of
another Cretan, Monseigneur Metaxatis, no longer Metropolitan of Athens
after King Constantine’s return.

“Metaxatis was received with open arms in America, where he devised the
formation of an ‘American Orthodox Church.’ Your Archbishop of
Canterbury was his next convert, and, thus supported, he was able to
flout Ottoman protests and to appoint himself (or see that he was
appointed) a ‘Patriarch’ at Constantinople, under the title of Metelios
IV.

“I scarcely see how any real union could be established between the
Protestant-Anglican—or is it Catholic?—Church and the Greek, if we
realise the superstitions that Greece has never thrown off. The Greeks,
whatever their faults, have always been faithful to their old, classic
religion. The superstitions, if not the glories, of Hellas are, one and
all, upheld to-day.”

I said that I thought the hand of Providence could be seen in M. Kemal’s
victory, which had saved us from this preposterous idea.

When I learned later, in Angora, of the Patriarch’s criminal disloyalty
on behalf of the Greeks, I almost wondered if Turkish religious
tolerance had not been carried too far. This wily Churchman actually
dared to make collections, _in Turkey_, for the Greek army designed for
the capture of Constantinople; openly preached treason and rebellion.
Yet he was sheltered behind his sacred office from the captivity of
General Trécroupis at Eski-Chéir!

What can we say of this Cretan, who thus dared to tamper with our
national Church? What shall we say of his spiritual fathers who approved
the plan? What can we say for Greece?

Surely the Churches, whatever their creed, should uphold honour between
all men. If the power a priest inevitably exerts over the penitent is
once abused for political ends, religion becomes no better than treason.
We look up to those in positions of trust and responsibility: priests,
lawyers, or doctors. When they betray their trust our sentence is doubly
severe.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The train now seems to have “put up for the night,” but it is shaking
like an earthquake; and as the rain lashes upon us in torrents, its
engine shrieks in unison with others in the dark distance. Every moment
I expected the whole construction to collapse. It was the old impression
of the “cellars” during an air-raid, the horrible suffocation of
claustro-mania, or the terror of being buried alive.

“I must get out.”

“You cannot. Where will you go?”

“I shall walk.”

“You will be blown away or killed on the line.”

“I cannot help it. I must get out. The train is choking me.”

“But it may start off again any moment, and you would be left stranded
on the line.”

The officer, poor man, said nothing. He knew his duty. Whatever I might
choose to do, he must accompany me and share my fate.

The inspector at last jumps out, and the cheik, exclaiming, “If you must
go, you must,” throws me down into the arms of that sturdy and solid
being, as you might fling a cat out into the rain. Now fully exposed to
the “four winds of heaven,” the drenching storm seemed to be tearing my
hair off my head, and I was soon ankle-deep in the thick mud; but the
air was good, and merely to be out of the train banished all fear of
being crushed to death in the darkness by some passing steam monster.

I _ought_ to have braced my nerves with the thought that Turkish women
have to endure these things; but for some reason the train terrified me.
As I can justly boast, I was terrified by nothing else in this country.

Three times they coaxed me back into that choking van (as now and again
the train shifted along for a few miles), and three times I insisted on
being tossed into the storm. It was about two o’clock in the morning
when, to the intense relief of all, we actually arrived at our
destination.

We disembark for “positively the last” time at Afioun-Karahissar, where
the deluge adds its gloom to the now familiar woefulness of a town in
ruins. Yet many of the inhabitants are actually sleeping in the mud of
that awful night.

We are driven some way beyond the town, to the one primitive and
tumble-down roof that can possibly offer us shelter. Like most Eastern
hans (_i.e._, inns), it is built round a courtyard, the living-rooms
next to the stable; but horses are warm and agreeable neighbours. Once
at the front, on a particularly cold and bitter day, the French, who
shrugged their shoulders and refused none of my mad requests, politely
allowed me to travel with the horses!

We climb rickety stairs and cross a wooden veranda to examine the
rooms—one with three beds, the other with two. Alas, the former is too
much for even the cheik’s philosophy, and he decides for the courtyard.
Neither of the beds in the double room is clean, certainly, but a marked
advance on the alternative; and, after placing the cheik’s quilt and
prayer-mat _between_ myself and the “men in possession,” and wrapping
myself up in two thick rugs, I am glad enough to “go to bed in my
boots,” with at least the prospect of “keeping still” for a few hours.
If a fire _has_ brought out more “visitors” than were obvious at our
first inspection, it is still better than traffic “by goods.”

The officer is compelled literally to “sit up” all night, as there is no
room for him to stretch his limbs.

On such a night I could have wished for a “smaller” hole in the floor,
and that the “mud” walls had not been quite so badly in need of repair;
yet the shabby and threadbare costume of the “man with our morning tea,”
was not sordid, but only picturesque.

The cheik, like so many men, is an excellent housewife, and when he laid
a clean handkerchief upon a large volume for tray, our breakfast of
bread and helva, nuts and fruit, looked quite appetising.

It is not the “indolence of the East” that is leaving these people in
destitution among the ruins. One day, what remains standing will have to
be pulled or burnt down, and a complete rebuilding undertaken. But
nothing can be done under a threat of war.

                  *       *       *       *       *

At every inn on our return journey the whole of the “service” was
entrusted to men. This, no doubt, largely explains the usual discomfort.
Women must not remain entirely anonymous.

The cheik told me he hoped the new generation, largely educated in
Europe, might welcome such innovations, but “it would be difficult for
the old. My wife, for instance, complained at having to ‘receive’ men
visitors in Berlin. She considered it ‘cheap’ and ‘lowering’ to her
prestige.”

I can only hope the women of Turkey, when they achieve progress, will
advance on the right lines—more determined on tact than pace.

One must, of course, discard conventions at need, as I was doing all the
time on this journey, but one can, at the same time, respect the
feelings of others.

I could not, for convention, allow my present companions to keep up the
full Eastern “separation of the sexes”; and, as the cheik remarked,
London ballrooms would be no less offensive to Turkish ladies of the old
school than the comparatively “close quarters” which common humanity
forbade us to avoid.

There are often, of course, directly opposed conventions in different
climates. In the Eastern mosques men keep on hats and take off boots;
Europeans reverse the custom. Eastern women object to “low” frocks and
“strange” partners “for the dance”; and, as one who had joined in them
once told me, it is better to dance alone; for, if the music suddenly
stops, a “couple” feel so embarrassed!

                  *       *       *       *       *

We were driven to the station for a train due to leave at 10 in the
morning, which actually started about 5 P.M.! We had first attempted to
find room in a third-class compartment with a French colonel, a Turkish
officer, and two servants. But Europeans, even in Asia Minor, are seldom
inclined to be accommodating, and my “ally” (!) diplomatically expressed
his desire to be left alone in his glory. “You will be much more
comfortable, my dear madam, in a less crowded carriage. I fear you could
not even find a seat among all these officers, and, at least, fifty
boxes.” We were not slow to take the hint.

However, there is no sign of being able to leave the station for some
hours, and the sun is shining for a change. Everyone, naturally, prefers
the platform; and having learnt, it appears, that I am _not_ married to
either the cheik or the Turkish officer, the colonel approaches me with
renewed curiosity. When I explain that I am English, he simply answers:
“You mean American?”

“The one Frenchman and the one Englishwoman in Anatolia,” was my retort,
“have met by chance at a wayside railway station, and you will not even
allow me to enter your carriage. Are _you_ really French?”

“I should be delighted and honoured if you will come and talk to me,”
was the would-be gallant reply, “but I have twenty boxes” (he has
quickly disposed of thirty). “I thought at first you were a lady of
sixty.”

“And numbered your boxes to match my years! I see; after all, you _must_
be French!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

  H.M. THE KALIPH OF ISLAM.
  A charming gentleman and a distinguished artist.
  p. 112
]

The cheik told me that Afioun means “opium,” and Karahissar is the
centre of that trade, completely paralysed for the moment. When I had
tea with Dame Rachel Crowday at the League of Nations in Geneva, I heard
that Turkey desired to join the Opium Convention, a striking instance of
public spirit in a country that needs all the money it can possibly lay
hands on; but the moral welfare of her people counts for more than
“profit” to the State. M. Kemal Pasha, indeed, has shown equal wisdom by
prohibiting the sale of alcohol. In Constantinople it was said, with a
truly “Western” hauteur: “How can the Turks imagine that they will
succeed where the United States have made such a failure?”

“Is that a sound argument” I replied, “for giving them a chance of
becoming what the States were _before_ prohibition? Americans do not
know ‘how to drink’; and I am afraid the Turks also might learn to use
alcohol, _not_ as a beverage or a pick-me-up, but just to get drunk.”

The strength and endurance of Turkish children, nourished on bread and
water, must prove of the strongest possible support to prohibition. “And
remember how quickly the Arab’s wounds were healed at the front, while
alcohol was so effective an antidote for septic-poisoning, because it
had never before even entered their systems.”

Constantinople had proved a sore affront to my national pride; but there
was an occasion in Naples when its humiliation was even more complete.

I was passing a crowd of happy children on the quay, rolling and
tumbling about in some strangely ridiculous fashion. Always keenly
interested in children’s games (and prayers), I went up to them and
asked what they were doing.

It was a game entitled “The drunken Englishman”!


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XIII

        A THIRD-CLASS COMPARTMENT—A FRENCHMAN AMONGST THE RUINS


AFTER a few miles of such travelling as had now become familiar, I
determined that I would change my carriage and pay a visit to the French
colonel—which proved far more lengthy than I had intended.

When I had manipulated the climb, I found plenty of room in spite of
boxes.

“What on earth are you doing here?” was his first question, to which I
gave him a _tu quoque_.

“I am looking after the French interests in Syria,” he replied, an
answer that could not fail to provoke a laugh.

“That is well worth noting,” I said, “a parallel to my journey from
London to Edinburgh, _via_ Paris! It will make ‘good news’ for the
British Foreign Office.”

“And in what way can it concern them?” was the stiff reply. “Their own
record in these parts is not entirely _sans reproche_.”

“Don’t forget I am an Englishwoman and not, as you insist on saying, an
American.”

“Is it not practically the same? You speak one language.”

I started up, almost in anger. “Never dare to say such a thing again. I
might as well ask whether you were a Senegali. The language is the same.
Individual Americans, some parts of their country, I consider, are
magnificent, but their Government!”

“Will any Government bear close inspection?”

“Perhaps not.”

“You regard the States precisely as I should expect from an
Englishwoman. But, after all, what has Great Britain done in Turkey,
after ‘letting us down’ over ‘reparations’—perfidious Albion!”

“I may be dense,” I returned (somewhat evasively, I admit), “but what
exactly is the connection between Syria and M. Kemal Pasha?”

“Everything and nothing,” was the characteristically enigmatic reply.

“I take that as courteous French for ‘mind your business,’ as charming a
phrase as your _Pourquoi-parceque_.”

He supposed that “I had been sent to Angora by the British Government,”
and I promised to send him notes on my conversation with “the
authorities” at Smyrna.

“Naturally,” the colonel persisted, “they would _pretend_ they had
nothing to do with your undertaking; but do they not pay your expenses?”

“I never heard of our Government having _paid_ a woman; I never heard of
their even consulting a woman—except Miss Bell—and, according to Colonel
Laurence, her great charm is that everyone takes her for a man!”

The colonel laughed.

“I am absolutely independent; nor shall I send a word to the Press
unless I want to do so.... The Government may exile me or send me to
prison; so may the Turks. But I _shall_ describe _what I see as I see
it_; and if anyone can prove me in error, I will correct my statements
and apologise.

“So few of us have the courage to write either articles or books in the
spirit of true independence that truth demands. We writers should not be
at the beck and call of newspaper editors. We ought not to respect their
policy if it offend our conscience or the truth. _They_ should follow
our lead. Had we only had more _esprit de corps_ this terribly false
position of Great Britain in Anatolia to-day could never have come
about.

“If the articles in which I have told the truth are _not_ published you
will know the reason. The editor has his opinions, and I refuse to
change mine.”

“What about the British propaganda?”

“There is no British propaganda.”

The colonel laughed, loud and long. “No country,” he said, “has spent so
much on ‘intelligence’ as Great Britain. Gold has been poured from her
coffers. That is why she has been so badly served.”

“I entirely agree. We _have_ squandered millions in the Near East—in
Palestine, Mesopotamia, and everywhere else. But towards women no
Government has been so mean. It is our own fault; ‘cheap labour’ is
considered patriotic; and, after all, the Government could not find the
money to squander unless someone was willing to take their pittance.”

“My dear young lady, the British are rolling in money.”

“M. Briand told the same tale till I cornered him one day, and then he
said: ‘Your country is so rich that she can even afford to give ‘golden’
hair to her women!’”

“Well,” he replied, “I can but admire you—to have undertaken such a
journey, at such a time, without the backing of your Government or the
Press—and all for no purpose!”

“You are frank,” I said with a smile. “Do you think I could have
accomplished more with the financial backing that your women can always
command from your Government?”

“I cannot understand your Government.”

“Neither can I.... That’s why I am here.... Do you remember the Bible
story of a city offered salvation if but _one_ righteous and upright man
could be found within her gates? So, God willing, may I, as _one_
Englishwoman and a friend, preserve for my country some last shred of
respect and faith in our honour among the Moslems of Turkey and India,
Egypt, Persia, and Palestine.”

Courtesy, I suppose, kept him silent, and we were soon busy with
preparations for dinner. He produced a towel for serviette, a piece of
newspaper for table-cloth, and—luxury of luxuries—a knife, a fork, and a
mug in which to enjoy some good French wine! The menu, too, was a
change: _foie gras_ and sardines, almonds and figs, apples and jam.

“I shall come and dine with you again,” said I, lest he should be too
shy to invite me.

I found that the colonel and his staff could fully sympathise, from
their own experience, with my anathemas upon luggage traffic. I told him
“no doubt it was he and his friends who were making those awful ‘night
noises’ that so alarmed me”; and though, of course, he denied it, my
story received the tribute of a polite and good-natured laugh.

“I admire your courage,” he said again.

“Reserve your judgment. You will have time enough to see later what a
combative person I can be.”

“_Nous verrons._”

We reached Eski-Chéir at about nine o’clock, and a telegram announced to
the colonel that a special private car was on its way to meet him.

“Now,” said he, “I can offer hospitality, not only to you, but to your
friends as well.”

We went to a café for tea, where numbers of Turks, wearing kalpaks, were
singing patriotic songs. Directly they had finished, I clapped my hands,
crying: “M. Kemal Pasha, _Chok Guzel_,” and their delight was obvious.

“Poor fellows,” said the colonel, whom I began to find sympathetic, “it
needs such a tiny effort; they will respond to the least hint of real
sympathy.”

There is nothing sordid about this little tumble-down café, though its
floors are thick with mud and the attendants are charmingly shabby. “At
least,” I said, “this dirt and discomfort is artistic.... What artist
would dream of painting an American sky-scraper, luxurious and
comfortable though it be? Yet here one could cover the walls of an
exhibition from one day’s experience. The picturesque water-pots, the
quaint trays, the artistic tea-glasses and coffee-cups, the colouring of
the costumes.

“If Mr. Chester of the U.S. has come here to sweep away all this he is
an enemy of Art.

“I love creature comforts—warmth, baths, and perfumes, but I sincerely
trust no fever of reform will ever induce the Turks to spoil their
surroundings; and, above all, that they will never call in American
specialists to teach them building achievements. By all means let them
adopt American hygiene; but American architecture, God forbid!

“I will pay honour where honour is due. To all who have so nobly
perpetuated the work of Florence Nightingale I bow the knee. But what
will American innovations do for Turkey?

“In the East End of New York, America’s melting-pot, I once saw a
picturesque old Jew reading Spinoza in the original, as he sat absorbed
on the sidewalk. His velvet cap was old and shabby, the long grizzly
beard maybe none too clean; but in the primitive robes of his ancient
race he looked a true Oriental.

“Then appeared his ‘American son’—a ‘Bowery’ accent, many smart rings, a
costly gold watchchain across his brightly-coloured waistcoat, spats and
patents, and a ‘time is money’ expression on his alert face. Which of
the generations would you prefer?

“If the Turk ever asks our advice, I sincerely hope no ‘counsels from
Europe’ will ever replace the artistic traditions of the East....
Europeanised Turks are not the ‘best’ Turks.

“You have already, alas, in the Hippodrome at Constantinople, that
cheap, ‘made in Germany’ monstrosity of a fountain, which the
once-mighty Emperor William bequeathed to you as the ‘souvenir’ of a
visit to ‘his brother,’ Abdul Hamid! Why has war left it untouched?”

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was a strange comfort to compare the happy faces of these men with
those one knew under the late Sultans. In those days, two or three
meeting together in a café were always in fear of arrest as
“suspects.” I remember what songs broke forth on the Night of the
Constitution—funereal, indeed, they sounded to our thinking, but such
_are_ their songs of joy.

Then they sang for joy, since “freedom” was too new a thing for serious
contentment; oppression had only just been lifted, the sense of security
had not arrived. Now, in the sure knowledge of freedom from the Greeks
and from Imperial rule, they sit, calm and confident and well satisfied,
no longer an Emperor’s slaves, but citizens of a Free State. Can one
wonder that every one of them would die rather than lose one inch of the
liberty so bravely won?

“Please tell them,” I asked the officer, “that I have been in Turkey for
every crisis of progress in recent history, and that none has filled me
with such proud delight as the victory of M. Kemal Pasha. I am here
to-day to offer him my congratulations.”

The colonel politely remarked that it would have been only “prudent”
speculation for the British Government to have despatched me upon the
mission I had undertaken for myself.

I thought how well it would be for many of my compatriots to do similar
work in other lands. It may be against all our traditions, but
“propaganda” could now do much for England. Here, on the brink of war,
where all men were filled with righteous indignation against us, I have
at least been able to leave a “better impression” of my country in
wayside cafés and many Turkish homes.

Yet, as official language would express it, I have not “licked the boots
of the Turks,” and everywhere I have been treated with the true courtesy
of the chivalrous. May the experience not prove to have laid the
foundation of a new and interesting career for women? To explain in all
lands, and to all envious or hostile peoples, the true greatness of the
British Empire, will not be work in vain.

Since my return I have been frequently asked to explain the rôle of the
French colonel in Angora. I cannot feel that his presence implied any
disloyalty to Great Britain. Again and again we have been asked by
France to modify our policy in the Near East. But as neither threats nor
coaxing has availed to save us from being the tools of designing Greece,
France was driven to “make her own arrangements.”

I do not say that she abandoned Cilicia simply for conscience’ sake, or
that she gave back that rich cotton district to Turkey from a pure love
of justice. But I am ready to congratulate her on the wisdom of retiring
before she was driven out. We must obviously own that Angora is not on
the direct road back to Syria, and that the colonel has lingered some
months by the way. That, however, is really his own business; and I do
not forget that I, too, once went to Turkey for six weeks and stayed six
months! No doubt he is no less welcome to M. Kemal Pasha than I was to
the Grand Vizier’s daughter.

He certainly proved an invaluable source of information. As I told him,
“he must have telegraphed to his Government every time he heard the
Pasha sneeze”; and, emphatically, he has done good work. Honest,
upright, and sincere, he can “explain many things” to the Turks, and
assist them with tactful advice. At the worst, he has harmed no one,
which cannot be said of all diplomatists in Constantinople!

I, personally, can respect those with whom I do not agree, even those
who, on behalf of their own country, dislike mine. It would surely have
been more prudent to _follow_ the French example, by having a
representative in Angora, than to criticise them. Suspicion leads
nowhere, and such a man as General Harington “on the spot” could have
done a great deal to hasten peace.

France has no desire, or, at least, no considered campaign, to undermine
our influence in the East; and the colonel, at any rate, was quite aware
that, whatever the gratitude Turkey may owe and feel to her, it is
England who will soon (once more) hold the first place in Turkey’s
affections. The terrible and tragic bunglings of these last years will
then be forgotten.

They have told me themselves that M. Franklin-Bouillon did all he could
to advise them to preserve good relations with England.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The car arrived about eleven o’clock, and though we were driven to spend
the night in the station (a junction between HAÏDAR Pasha, Angora and
Smyrna); though the wind howled over the beating rain, and the train
shrieked in the distance, the contrast of so much comfort (on the
luxurious couch of a roomy car) with the experience of the previous
night, made one feel that the discomfort itself had been worth while.

As the colonel, the cheik and the officers in turn brought me a glass of
tea by way of nightcap, I said to each: “How good it is to be here!”


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XIV

     IN THE “TRAIN DE LUXE”—THE SUPREME GOOD FELLOWSHIP OF ENGLISH
          LAUGHTER—JOURNEYING TOWARDS THE CRADLE OF NEW TURKEY


IT was well past ten when I woke next morning. Though the sun was
blazing through the uncurtained windows, I had slept undisturbed.

[Illustration:

  A Battle Royal with my Tangled, Dusty Hair.
]

There had, of course, been no chance of “undressing for the night.” But
I had been able to take off my boots, and having a whole compartment to
myself, I was only too glad to take out my wire brush for the luxury of
a “battle royal” with my tangled and dusty hair.

I was still only half awake and far too tired to think of _les
convenances_, when a smiling crowd of excited and gesticulating
Turks suddenly appeared on the platform. Truth to tell, the
six-days-and-five-nights’ journey seemed like an eternity. I had
forgotten Smyrna—almost forgotten the war. Were these happy children
the “enemies” of my country?

A tactful little bird now reminded me that Turks are not used to the
vision of ladies “at the toilette,” and it was, perhaps, a somewhat
perverse form of gratitude that tempted me to fill my rubber basin from
my host’s bottle of Evian in order to wash my hands “under the table.”

[Illustration:

  A Bottle of Evian—Under the Table.
]

Despite haste and discretion, however, I experienced an unusual sense of
being dressed and clean, as I eventually stepped out into the daylight
to make the acquaintance of Eski-Chéir.

I found the colonel on the platform talking with animation to a
nice-looking Turkish general, who also, it appeared, had a saloon, to
which we all three soon adjourned for coffee and talk. He, too, will
scarcely believe that I am English.... “I did not think Englishwomen
could laugh so heartily,” was his excuse for scepticism.

“My dear sir,” I replied, “I was born laughing, and shall keep it up to
the bitter end. God has given me a few gifts—not many—and that for which
I give most thanks is a keen sense of humour.”

So I trotted out all the experiences of my journey one by one, not
forgetting the Greek I had to “shake” at Athens, and the Frenchman in
the “Caracole.” Convulsed with laughter, they one and all shouted: “She
is _not_ English!”

This strange impression of our race prevails, I know, also in France and
America. They forget Shakespeare’s Falstaff and the supreme “good
fellowship of English laughter.” French wit, no doubt, reveals the swift
play of a keener and more subtle intellect; ours is a “midsummer
madness” of warm hearts in the Forests of Arden.

For my part, when the “literature” mistress challenged her class to
“hunt for humour” in “Julius Cæsar,” I put my finger upon the Stage
Direction—“Enter Cæsar in his nightgown!” I could not then, nor can I
now, agree that Brutus’s wife’s distracted hurrying away, and then
recalling, the page for news of his master is anything but tragic
pathos.

Few nations, again, will enjoy as we do a joke against themselves. When
I published a “Turkish Woman’s Impressions of Europe,” about ten years
ago, in which she so happily hit off the weakness of our Western
civilisations, the Continent was up in arms. It was an _English_ critic
who gaily expressed his “most sincere thanks” for so “thorough a
dressing-down.” No publisher in the States would take the following
book, with Americans as “victims,” for fear of his “sensitive” and
“patriotic” (!) readers.

                  *       *       *       *       *

At a half-ruined restaurant near the station, over the most excellent
meal I ever tasted in such miserable surroundings, we had a long talk
with General Mouedine Pasha and his two sons about politics and some
curious stories they had heard somewhere about England. It is natural
that these men should not be interested in any other subject. The
general, he told us, had been in and out of prison for the last fifteen
years—exiled by Abdul Hamid, escaping, and caught again. After the
Armistice he left Constantinople, at great personal risk, to join M.
Kemal Pasha; was, for a time, Governor of Adana, and is now taking up
his post as Ambassador at Teheran. Most of the leading soldier
Nationalists—M. Kemal Pasha and Fethi Bey among the rest—seem to have
been his grateful pupils, and, naturally, he is a proud man to-day.

If only the authorities at Lausanne had known or could imagine anything
about life in Angora during the last three years! All the best men
exiled, persecuted, and imprisoned. What wonder that Nationalism had
grown into a religion!

He was indignant at the suggestion that French officers, or a British
strategist, were “wanted” in the Turkish Army. “My pupils,” he said,
“are more fitted to _give_ instruction than to receive it....

“The buying and selling of munitions, the haggling and bargaining
introduced in the army—all that ought _not_ to be—came from Germany.”

He was not the _only_ “big man” in Turkey to lose faith in their
war-ally, or to recognise some compensation for their terrible defeat in
the freedom from Teuton rule that it involved; but they are not,
therefore, any more kindly disposed to the yoke of “the Allies.”

Eski-Chéir had been one of the most flourishing towns in Anatolia, and
was destined from its position as a junction between two big railway
lines—Angora and Baghdad—to become more prosperous year by year. Every
town, of course, has its own story of looting, “violation of women,” and
fire; but to the spectator all now seem very much alike, and what
chiefly impressed one here was the amazing rapidity with which it had
started to recover.

If the produce be only lifted from the backs of patient and sure-footed
donkeys on to the Mother Earth, it is, after all, extraordinary that
there should yet be any produce left. Peasants ready to walk miles along
muddy roads to sell their goods in such small quantities for so little
profit will scarcely welcome the cost of transport by modern methods.
For them, time is _not_ money, and four weeks’ tramp beside a donkey is
far cheaper than a few hours by train.

It surprised me to find the curio-merchants already again supplied with
their tempting wares: mother-o’-pearl ikons and other relics, old
coffee-mills, coral seals, cameos, etc. Trade was fairly brisk, being
run on the sound basis of quick profits and small returns, fair prices
and honest dealing.

The attractions, of course, come nowhere near those of the famous bazaar
at Constantinople; but I was grateful to find so little haggling over
the price. I remember two types of merchants at Constantinople. One
kindly-looking old man with a long white beard was sitting cross-legged
over his charcoal fire, making himself a cup of coffee. When I inquired
about a fine Persian dressing-gown that took my fancy, he simply
answered: “Much too dear for you,” and so dismissed me. The other always
asked for three times what he was prepared to accept—a most irritating
habit. When I visited the bazaar in Turkish dress, my Turkish sister, of
course a real Turk, asked if he really found he _could_ rob people in
this way. “I never rob Turks,” was the naïve reply, “only the English
and the Americans.” The temptation to disclose my nationality was
strong, but in those less liberal days it might have meant “trouble” for
my friend.

Here I soon saw it would be waste of time to visit _any_ bazaar after
the French colonel. He counts it a day wasted if he has not found some
treasures, which are all sent for him to Paris.... “Poor man,” as my
friend the innkeeper would have remarked, “he is so far from home!”

In Eski-Chéir before the fire, however, art had been altogether put away
for munitions. The factories worked day and night, cannons and lorries
in readiness all the time. One day we shall learn something at least of
the ceaseless efforts by which victory was snatched out of nothing.

We left the town at about ten o’clock in the evening. At last we are
actually _en route_ for Angora. “I cannot even yet quite believe,” said
I, “that I am really starting, that I shall really arrive.” I heard that
some American women (more enterprising, or less expensive, than their
confrères) have reached Ismidt, but can get no further.

It was, indeed, “hard-going,” and I believe that the colonel’s “salon”
only just came in time. I was told, four years ago, by the eminent Jean
Louis Faure, that _if_ I survived at all it would be as a permanent and
complete invalid. Yet I have faced more since then than most “strong”
people would care to attempt.

The Turks, remember, who could not obtain or afford a yaili (the native
carriage) were driven to “walk” the eight hundred miles to Angora in a
climate that more than doubles the strain on one’s physique.

                  *       *       *       *       *

As soon as we meet new faces, the questions about Lloyd George all begin
over again.

I told the story of _Les Misérables_. How the ambitious Welsh lad and
his uncle, the village cobbler, “worked at the French” together in the
old days, one looking out “what a word meant” in the dictionary, the
other discovering how to pronounce it. Mr. Lloyd George had often
declared that the policy of his whole career came straight from his
first study of that immortal classic—“to devote his life to helping the
‘under dog.’”

Perhaps he has lost the copy of _Les Misérables_ he used always to carry
with him, and so missed the road to that magnificent goal; so, at least,
it seemed to my Turkish audience. “That is the man, a democrat who could
understand and appreciate our fight for freedom; what has driven him to
hate us?”

I could only repeat such “explanation” as I had been able to offer
before to their compatriots of the mountains.

The colonel was kind enough to suggest how much I might have saved
England had I been here a year ago.

“It is very doubtful,” I answered, “whether I could have done much, even
then. Our Government makes up its own mind without listening to outside
information. As a matter of fact, Colonel Aubrey Herbert, a _recognised_
authority on the Near East, called twice at 10, Downing Street, to urge
that very scheme upon the Premier’s private secretary, Mr. Philip Kerr,
but they preferred to keep me in England.”

“But why is your ‘intelligence’ so badly managed?” he asked.

“What evidence can you produce for such an assumption?” was my retort.

“There could surely be no other explanation of your leaving the Greeks
without support ... unless, indeed, they are right who whisper that Mr.
Lloyd George actually wanted the opposing armies to exterminate each
other. His conduct, certainly, lent colour to the charge.”

But I refused to be drawn.... “‘Intelligence’ is not my province,” I
answered, “although I _can_ say that the Turks were not served much
better in that respect.... They won by ‘faith’; what we of the West call
‘superstition.’”

I was able to more or less look after the son of an eminent Turkish lady
writer during his studies in Paris, just after the Treaty of Sèvres. His
father, one of the leading Governors under the last administration, had
given up all to follow M. Kemal Pasha. When I asked the boy whether they
had any hope of success, he just flashed out: “They _must_ succeed. His
stars are ‘right.’ He _could_ not fail!”

On the other hand, Turkish diplomats, one and all, declared he would
fail.

[Illustration:

  GENERAL MOUEDDINE PASHA.
  MILITARY INSTRUCTOR OF MUSTAPHA KEMAL PASHA.
  TURKISH AMBASSADOR AT TEHERAN (PERSIA).
  p. 128
]

“Must such splendid efforts be thrown away?” I sadly answered; “are
there _no_ circumstances that _might_ arise to justify at least some
hope?”

“My dear lady,” was the courteous and grave reply, “we _wish_ him
success, as you do; but you have too much good sense to believe in fairy
tales. The Pasha has neither money nor munitions. He has the Greeks
(well supported by the Allies and the Sultan) against him on the north,
the Armenians on the east, the French on the south. He will put up a
brave fight and perish in the attempt. The days of miracles are past.”
But the miracle happened!

                  *       *       *       *       *

And now, as the train followed the line of the victorious army, our
young men took out their maps and eagerly pointed out to us these, now
almost sacred, landmarks. Their father, at the same time, explained many
technical details—why such and such a position could not be maintained,
where the Greek strategy had failed, how General Trécoupis (now
thankful, no doubt, to be in the Turks’ hands at Eski-Chéir) had
surrendered to a mere lieutenant.

By way of return for all this interesting information, I told a few
simple stories about the Royal Family of Great Britain, which I have
always found interest these people far more than my “grander,” or more
romantic, reminiscences from the Courts of Europe.

They are never tired of hearing that our Edward VII. only required _one_
“gentleman in waiting” at a time at Marienbad; whereas the Czar
(Ferdinand) of Bulgaria was always accompanied by a suite of eight or
nine. Sir Edward Goschen was instructed to dress, like his royal master,
in a green Tyrolese hat with its little shooting feather. He was sent to
sit on “the king’s bench” until the crowd had satisfied their natural
desires for “a good view,” and gone home to breakfast. _Then_ Edward
VII. himself arrived.

I went on to tell of a Wagner concert, so crowded that a certain little
American lady of about seventy quietly settled into the only empty seat
that the King’s attendant just happened to have vacated. She simply
“refused to believe” the scandalised authorities when they told her that
she was sitting beside the King of England. Edward enjoyed the joke,
would not allow “his friend,” to be disturbed, and chattered merrily to
her between the music to the end of the programme.

Her countrywomen, in Ascot gowns, driving their four-horse carriages up
to the golf-course at Marienbad, _in search of_ an introduction, did not
find His Majesty so easy to approach. The most determined of them all
(up against something that “money” could not buy) was driven to use her
scissors to cut off a few hairs from his dog’s tail. “At least,” she
said, “if I have no souvenir of the King of England, I have a bit of his
dog,” and she mounted the hairs in a locket and wore it until she died.

“You see,” I concluded, “how much these ‘democrats’ admire a king. Will
the fever, I wonder, ever take root in the East?”

                  *       *       *       *       *

When we reached the Sakharia, the eyes of the general were filled with
tears, and it was some time before he managed to speak of what _had
been_. It seemed, indeed, too good to be true. The Greeks had penetrated
to Sakharia; and now they were driven out of the whole country!

“Without our Pasha,” said he, “we should still be slaves. To-day, none
dare fail in duty to our Fatherland!”

They were all this man’s pupils, these Nationalist leaders. To his fine,
upright character they owe an example they are proud to acknowledge. His
sons told me that he was in exile for six years, and they had no idea
where he was! It was easy to see how they admired him and how devoted he
was to them; and now his work at Teheran will not be easy; such men give
their whole lives to service!

We have travelled quickly and comfortably over this desolate country;
the little engine, _stoked with wood_, is tugging its long burden up the
long heights.

“Look,” said the colonel, “there is Angora.”

“That little village perched on a hill?”

“It is not a village,” he corrected, “it is a town.”

Yet somehow I felt this was not what I had expected ... “such a tiny
speck of a place to bear so great a name!”

Well, I had my first peep at that which I had come so far to see—the
cradle of the New Turkey. Soon I shall meet the hero of the
Nationalists!


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                               CHAPTER XV

    ANGORA I.—ENTERING A “BROTHERHOOD”—AN ATMOSPHERE OF CAMARADERIE


“WELL, what did you expect to see?” asked the colonel.

“Really, I don’t know exactly,” said I, “but something different.... I
suppose I am foolish enough to look for some sort of likeness to our
Western towns.... There is a certain resemblance in parts to a town in
the Rhondda Valley, except that the Welsh mining districts are sordid
and this is picturesque.”

“Why not leave it as it is,” said the colonel—“unique and impossible to
classify? Begin your explorations at my house, where you can enjoy
another glass of warm tea.”

This, in fact, was the first house I entered, and the last I left, in
Angora.

On a crowded platform—for the arrival of a train is an event—stood a
Chef de Cabinet of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and other officials.
The Prime Minister embraced his old friend the cheik, and carried him
off to his simple two-roomed dwelling.

When I met Fethi Bey in London, it seemed incredible that he should have
been treated as an enemy and exiled to Malta. Now that I came to know
Rauf Bey, it was impossible not to feel the same. Away in these distant
mountains, he speaks the most excellent English, without even an accent.

I remember a merchant of Smyrna, who complained to me that “these
horrible people expect us to learn their language, to speak and write
it.”

“And why not?” I answered. “They learn ours.”

“Oh, that’s quite different. Besides, Turkish is much too difficult.”

I reminded him of Mrs. John Burns. When her husband became a Cabinet
Minister, a certain fine lady decided to amuse herself by inviting “the
man’s wife” to tea. Her note ran: “Do excuse my not having called on
you. It is so far for me to come from Mayfair to Battersea.” Mrs. Burns
replied: “It is exactly the same distance from Battersea to Mayfair.”

“That is a charming story, but it will not persuade me to learn
Turkish.”

The Prime Minister, for some reason wearing a fez in place of the
picturesque kalpak, brought me apologies for Fethi Bey’s absence. “It is
Friday, and he has not been to the office all day.” We had all forgotten
that it was the Moslem Sunday.

“Now we are going to be friends,” I said later to Rauf Bey, “we must
arrange ‘the same day’ for our prayers of thanksgiving for peace.”

“It is you who will have to change,” he replied, smiling; “you must
learn to go our ways now.”

Here, indeed, at this far-away little station, one seemed to be entering
some kindly “brotherhood.” Everyone was wringing the colonel’s hand,
embracing the general and the cheik. I felt, too, that my
fellow-passengers were telling them about “a new member” they wanted to
introduce, saying heartily: “She will soon know all about the rules of
our club.” Everyone here plainly “stood for” the same ideals. We are
talking like friends already, without the formality of an introduction.
We are all working for a definite and well-defined goal. Houses are
scarcely needed for hospitality in a town with this atmosphere of
_camaraderie_.

I found myself chatting with the Prime Minister as though we were old
members of the same club. When, a few minutes later, I described the
unconscious influence to the colonel, he only said to his friends: “See
how quickly she catches the atmosphere of this delightful place!”

Here it is sympathy with Turkey in her bid for freedom that gives one
the _entré_ to the society, as in London one gains admission to the
club, in my case for example, as a writer of books. There is no sense of
suspicion. You feel you have a right to be here all the time. If you
were not _trusted_ you would not be allowed over the threshold.

Soldiers and refugees, officers and deputies, they are all on the
platform. Everybody has seen us, everybody has greeted us; next morning
the kindest little paragraph of welcome appears in the newspapers. I
have completely forgotten the war!

The colonel lives on the first floor of what was in the “beginning of
days” the Station Hotel. M. Kemal Pasha himself lived there for a time,
and now it is the “French Embassy.” Fortunately, the colonel has
schooled himself into _imagining_ a house is warm, whatever the
temperature; and I found him very comfortably installed, with plenty of
fresh air and a fine open view. Within, however, there were, except in
the bureau, no rugs or carpets on the bare boards.

To secure the luxury of a European wash, I decided to spend the night in
the station, where the young secretary gladly gave up his room to me,
making a bedroom of the bureau for himself and the colonel’s
aide-de-camp, Captain Hikmet Bey, after we had all enjoyed a very
appetising little meal.

The “Catholic” servant, however, was frankly annoyed at having to wait
on an Englishwoman—“that hateful intriguing race that killed my
husband!” He was killed, as a matter of fact, by the Greeks, but we are,
not unnaturally, held responsible, and once more I realised how little
“brotherhood” there exists between Christians. I confess it is always
with an effort that I remember Armenians _are_ Christians. In the end,
however, Marie decided that I was not really English, and we became the
best of friends. When I left Angora she shed many tears, kissing my
hand, placing it against her forehead in the picturesque custom of her
race, and begging me to come back soon.

When I handed her my rubber hot-bottle, she apparently supposed I did
not care to use the jug which already stood on the table, and filled it
with _cold_ water! When she understood that the water must be hot, she
brought it back to me to wait and watch what I would do with it. The
idea of putting it in my bed made her laugh heartily; and then she
decided to sit down and see whatever would happen next!

But I was tired, and, with none to interpret, began to wonder how I
could send her away. My phrase-book, as usual, did not provide the clue,
so I merely pointed to the door, saying _kapou_ (a door), which luckily
had the desired effect. But she was back again as soon as she dared in
the morning, to enjoy more laughter at the sight of the hot-bottle by my
side.

The principal road from the station to “Holy Angora” is wide enough for
three or four carts to pass.

Here are two-horse carriages, their primitive harness decorated with
turquoise beads, driven by picturesque, shabby Arabaje (_i.e._,
coachmen) in turbans of many colours. Also the yaili, so called from
their springs, and the famous Anatolian log-carriages, drawn by
bullocks. By the _side_ of the road, sunk in the snow or mud, are the
heavy carts drawn by buffaloes and driven by women, who wear the large,
baggy, Anatolian trousers, and conceal their hair beneath a scarf. Their
clothes, poor souls, are so nearly covered with patches that some of
them seem “all patch.” The men all wear kalpaks, and we see the peasants
(men and women) riding their laden donkeys or trudging along beside
beasts as patient as themselves. They look as though they had walked
straight out of the Bible.

The main road passes the Grand National Assembly on the way to the few
shops. The restaurants make a fair show of Turkish delicacies, like your
ekmek-kadaïf, and kébab. We pass two hans (_i.e._, inns) as primitive in
comfort as appearance, built of mud in which large holes can be seen,
and full of danger to the unwary on their rickety staircases. The
“commercials” in their yailis, on camels or donkeys, however, can find
no other or better accommodation. There are pictures of Ghazi Pasha all
over the town, and in one or two bookshops you can also buy his
principal colleagues, patriotic postcards, and other “Nationalist”
pictures in gaudy colours.

At quaint little booths in the market-place we find a tempting array of
fruit, vegetables, and meat, bread and cheese, raisins, nuts, and boots!

And, finally, we reach a few dwelling-houses of wood, stone, or mud that
do not seem to have been built on any plan, and now look more irregular
than ever because of the huge “gap” on the hillside caused, of course,
by the usual fire!

[Illustration:

  The Market-place at Angora.
]

The weatherbeaten mud and thatch dwellings are whitewashed inside, and
have plain wooden doors with handsome knockers and quaint, huge locks.
They are mostly heated by mangals of burning charcoal that give out
poisonous fumes. However, the wood-stoves are not much better, as they
quickly produce an intense heat and then die down as quickly, besides
the danger of setting the whole place on fire.

It is difficult to find one’s way in Angora, but the coachmen are
wonderful. They “take” anything in their headlong course, so that one is
constantly jolted out of one’s seat as the carriages swing from angle to
angle, up and down the steep slopes. To start from the Ottoman Bank on a
wet day requires a double dose of fatalism.

[Illustration:

  “The carriages swing from angle to angle.”
]

Ismet Pasha was much amused when I told him that I always said my
prayers before starting out for a drive, and uttered some “holy
ejaculation” every five minutes of the way. Even a handsome car like M.
Kemal Pasha’s can be seen dancing about like Shakespeare’s elf—“over
hill, over dale, through bush, through briar!” A chauffeur who can pilot
you through Angora could negotiate any country under the sun.

It was as well, perhaps, that my host, Feszi Bey, had arranged for me to
be driven to his house under the cover of darkness, when pitfalls were
not so obvious. He is Minister of Public Works, and was at the moment
attending the debate on the dethronement of the Sultan. As none of his
family speak French, Osman Noury Bey, of the Ottoman Bank, had been
instructed to act as my escort, and we found them all in the
sitting-room, with its lattice windows at each end, round as large a
fire as it was safe to have. The heat was almost overpowering after our
brisk drive in the night air.

Osman Noury Bey was obliged to leave me on the threshold, as he could
not enter the women’s apartments. While the _harīm_ and sex-separation
are not now rigidly enforced by the most educated Turks, they have not
by any means yet disappeared. I found that the whole “woman” question
was really on much the same footing in Anatolia as in other countries;
that is, “liberty” varies with education, upbringing, and surroundings.
In this house the women were closely veiled and dependent upon their own
sex for all their pleasures and companionships. Osman Bey himself is
thoroughly liberal-minded and would have allowed his wife full freedom,
provided only her hair was covered, but she goes out very little and
clearly prefers the old ways.

On the other hand, the wife of Djavid Bey, ex-Minister of Finance, goes
to private dances; while Halidé Hanoum goes everywhere and has mixed
freely with men for many years. Yet I, a woman, have never seen her hair
unveiled.

While we were waiting for my host’s return, I did my best to “make
conversation” by signs and gestures, and was really surprised at my
success. You can convey far more than one would suppose when you
seriously endeavour to _make_ your company understand. I had my book,
too, of “conversations in Turkish,” and so managed to remark: “The house
is large—the fire is warm—I like a warm fire.” Had I depended upon the
women in Turkey, I might soon have learned something of their language.

Our host arrives, and he is kindness and courtesy itself.

At about half-past nine, his Excellency asked me when I would like to
dine.

“Whenever you are ready,” I replied.

“Oh, no,” was the courteous reply, “it is when _you_ are ready. _Vous
maître maison, moi votre service._” Too charming a thought for one to
examine the accuracy of the language!

He was always amused to see me “hunting” in the dictionary; and as I
could _never_ get used to “beginning at the end and reading backwards,”
my most painstaking researches often produced strange results.

Like most of the Nationalist ministers, Feszi Bey is a man of about
forty, tall, well-built, dark, with large dark eyes. He is one of the
richest men in Asia Minor, owning about eighteen villages in Diarbékir,
and is immensely proud of his sons. His house in Constantinople was
“requisitioned” for English officers and left almost in ruins; but he
has large estates and many houses in his native land. Here, in Angora,
he was paying what seemed to be a heavy rent for somewhere to live,
considering the scanty furniture and lack of comforts in this house.

The ground-floor was occupied by kitchens and another room which the
merciful man had given up to his horses, leaving his carriage outside in
the rain and snow. Though not in any way like a stable, the animals were
clearly well-cared-for here. A very steep wooden staircase, certainly
_not_ built for ladies’ high heels, leads to a central room—almost a
“lounge”—which opens into four others. It was dimly lit by candles, a
survival from war-days when petrol was worth its weight in
gold—literally two hundred francs a litre.

Feszi Bey has been in Angora ever since the movement began, and has
acquired that striking expression of a set, firm resolve which I notice
on the faces of all his colleagues. I asked him whether he did not
“sometimes tire of living in this bare and rough Asiatic fortress, so
far from all means of culture or distraction.”

“We have our work,” he replied; “too absorbing and too important to
leave us time for complaint. We do not even ‘miss’ our comforts, or need
more than an hour or two’s sleep. There is so much to plan for our new
country, the day, and most of the night, are not long enough.”

Here one naturally feels far more in “New Turkey” than at Smyrna; the
impression grows on one day by day. At Lausanne I tried to make them
understand that they were still busying themselves over a Turkey that is
dead.... “You can’t talk to these people as you were accustomed to speak
under the Sultans, they would not understand you.”

They only smiled at a woman carried away by her emotions. But they were
wrong; this is no question of sex. The very ramparts, clear-cut in the
distance like gigantic razor-blades, the very remains of the Roman, even
the Seldjoucide and Osman, civilisations which halted among these hills,
will bear witness to the birth of a new nation!

As I gaze out over the mountain-tomb of Timourlin a voice seems to cut
through the chill air: “Here is a glory that will not perish. Here,
where the civilisations of the world’s childhood have flourished; here,
on the ruins of the great Empire of the Ancients; here beginneth a new
Turkey, the democrat of democracies!”


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XVI

          ANGORA II.—AT THE HOME OF MY KIND AND COURTEOUS HOST


THE next morning we breakfast, “when I am ready,” which is 8.30. My
host’s face beams with delight, and the generous _menu_ could hardly
fail to put “the guest” in good spirits—toast and boiled eggs (my
allowance being half a dozen a day), biscuits and cheese, olives, and
glasses of tea.

In Nationalist houses “reading the papers” and discussing foreign
telegrams have become almost a religious rite. This morning, clearly,
there is “good news”! The very air we breathe seems lighter, faces look
less anxious, men are greeting each other in hopeful tones! What can it
be?

Of course, I am not kept long in suspense—“Mr. Lloyd George is a fallen
angel!” Well, certainly, I shall not go into mourning; but, at the same
time, the animosity thus so sharply revealed makes one sad for one’s own
country.

With their inborn tact, my friends suggest that we all go to the Pasha’s
to celebrate, _not_ the fall of a “Lost Leader,” but the prospect of the
Conservatives’ return to power.

To them, as in England, the change is welcome for the long vista of
possibilities it opens up. Shall we resume the Beaconsfield traditions
without Gladstone’s sentimentality? Will Mr. Bonar Law find means to
justify our faith? It is obviously early days yet for any assurance in
prophecy.

Yet, if the exit of Mr. Lloyd George delighted the Continent and the
Near East—as if a modern Nero had been assassinated—I, for one, could
only think with sorrow upon the “splendour of opportunity” which he has
missed and lost. No man, since the world began, ever held in his hands
such a power for good in England and among all nations. He could have
raised the prestige of Empire to even greater heights and led the
councils for peace.

Almost the contrary has come to pass. To-day, certainly, our faith, our
good word, our justice, and our fair play (without which England is
_not_ England) are almost everywhere subjected to suspicion and
distrust.

When Turks tell me it is as easy “to buy” one of our officers as those
of other nations, that they have done so over and over again in
Constantinople, I try to say that it cannot be. When my host tells me
they paid £6,000 sterling for our men’s assistance to charter a boat and
escape from Malta, I can only admit, in silence, that they
did—somehow—escape. When I learn that at least _one_ correspondent in
Constantinople is subsidised by the Greeks, I can bear no more. Whence
have bribery and corruption invaded our country against the traditions
of centuries? I told them I used to feel that “I was sitting on a rock
amidst howling and roaring seas; now even the rock itself is sinking.”

To pay honour where honour is due, I compliment the Minister on the
splendid “foreign” news of both his papers—the _Tanine_ and the _Vakit_.
I wish to-day that I knew the language and could read the articles by
Hussein Djahid and Ahmet Emine. Even translated, I find them full of
sound commonsense and beautifully written. If at times they are bitter,
there is none of that sensationalism which our Press has lately borrowed
from the States.

My host is due at his office at 9.30, but, though he has ventured to
glance at his watch, the talk continues. At about 10.30, I casually ask:
“Are you not going to your office to-day?”

“When you allow it,” was the startling answer.

Now, surely, time is of importance at least to a responsible Minister?
Yet he will cheerfully give up an hour of his sleep (for that is what it
will mean) to my entertainment, because I have forgotten _my_ duty.

“Do not hesitate,” he went on, “to tell me of anyone you would specially
like to meet, man or woman. It shall be arranged.... Fethi Bey will
lunch with you to-day. Whom else shall I invite?”

I said that I should, one day, like to see Younous Nadi Bey, the editor
of _Yeni Gun_ and President of Commission for Foreign Affairs in the
Grand National Assembly. “He must be interesting, since our Press
describe him as a ‘man who ought to be shot’!”

I found this gentleman, as I expected, well worth going out of one’s way
to meet. Without the exquisite manners of Hussein Djahid Bey, he is one
of those men who, having made up his own mind about right and wrong,
never hesitates to act.

At any rate, until he _is_ shot, he will not allow the Government to
sleep, nor to trust Europe without sufficient guarantees. He graciously
wrote in _Yeni Gun_ that I had given him some very valuable information
about our policy. I certainly did my best to explain Lord Curzon’s
position. Neither he nor Fethi Bey, however, could understand how he
could stay in the new Cabinet. I scarcely expected that they, or any
foreigner, could realise the full measure of England’s folly in putting
the whole machinery of government into one man’s undisputed control.
Like everyone else nominally in power, the Foreign Minister became a
mere cypher.

“Why did he stand it?” they asked.

“For the moment, no protests would have had any effect. His resignation
might easily have brought in a far more complete collapse, and,
meanwhile, he probably felt that the interests of Conservatism were, to
a large extent, in his hands. Lord Curzon knows the East, and he knows
what _ought_ to be done. As Goethe says: ‘Between the knave and the
fool, one should always choose the knave.’... _Gegen die Dumheit,
kämpfen die Götte selbst vergebens._ (Even the gods fight in vain
against stupidity.)”

Again and again I try to assure them that our policy in Turkey is going
to “come right.” When they politely retorted that we “did not seem in
any great hurry to start turning,” I could only suggest that “Empires,
like whales, could not quickly change their direction.”

Younous Nadi Bey is a most interesting talker. Like so many of the
Nationalists, he “comes from” Malta; like them all, he loves his country
sincerely, and is eager to protect her. Can we expect these men to trust
the Power that, only three months ago, was doing its best to destroy
them? For myself, I could only hope that we should soon give them sound
reason to change their opinions.

I afterwards paid a visit to Younous Nadi at the offices of the _Yeni
Gun_. After coffee in his primitive “editorial sanctum,” I was shown
over all the “works.”

The illustrations are prepared with a hand machine, which reminded me of
our school magazine activities; but the “results” are, if anything,
rather better than our own “dailies” achieve.

The operator had built his bed over the solitary press, in part, no
doubt, to save time, but possibly also with the idea of protecting his
“treasure.” The editor apologised for the lack of all our modern
processes of production. I was the more inclined to compliment him upon
his conquest of difficulties.

It is surely a _tour de force_ to “get the news” from this Anatolian
machinery, and there are sixty papers in Anatolia!

                  *       *       *       *       *

We were staying in the Hadji Baïram quarter of Angora, so called from
the mosque and turbé erected in memory of that sainted man. My host’s
house stands on the edge of a hillock, exposed on all sides to the rain
or wind or snow. No carriage can drive up to the doors, and, too often,
that last hundred yards’ walk means being soaked to the skin. Any number
of stray dogs and cats find shelter in its many doorways, howling and
whining all through the night.

[Illustration:

  GRAND NATIONAL ASSEMBLY AT ANGORA.
  p. 141
]

My guide is supposed to call for me at ten o’clock in the morning, but I
have often enough rejoiced at his indifference to the clock. There is so
much to sketch from our front door: an unused cemetery, with
moss-covered stèles (tombstones) lying in picturesque confusion; a
tumble-down shepherd’s hut; a crumbling mosque; mud houses in need of
repair; and for background, a steep hill crowned by Timourlin’s tomb.

[Illustration:

  “There is so much to sketch from our front door.”
]

While painting, I have counted just four passers-by—two men leading
their fruit-laden donkeys, and two women taking their asses to drink. No
artist can resist Oriental landscapes; and genius, I suppose, would
hardly remember to share my longing for nice warm “Western” baths in an
atmosphere that means “microbes” in summer and in winter all kinds of
discomfort.

The “sights” for tourists do not delay one many days. There are
excellent “Red Cross” hospitals, a military hospital, an école normale
for girls, a military school, the Ministries, town gardens, the Armenian
Orphanage, the “Embassies,” and the Ottoman Bank. One can also enjoy
long drives through miles of uncultivated land.

These various “institutions,” particularly the educational, are full of
interest if one had time to thoroughly investigate the whole system,
since probably no civilisation in the world differs so radically from
our own.

Explorations, however extensive, must all be over before five o’clock.
For as the eastern sun sets in its glory, we all go home—ministers and
deputies to plan and work, the rest of the population to talk and wonder
what the “great folk” are doing.

I never understood how all the people managed to hide themselves in so
few houses. Turks, we all know, can perform miracles with mattresses and
divans; but even their ingenuity can seldom have overcome so “tough a
problem” as the inhabitants, official and civil, of Angora.

There _is_, admittedly, a housing “problem,” and building has not yet
begun. As Angora is to be the permanent seat of Government, they cannot
much longer delay the important consideration of providing for Foreign
Embassies.

I have already driven many times past the Assembly (which closely
resembles one of our county clubs); I have seen the admirably-arranged
flower-gardens and heard the band. To-morrow, for the first time, I am
to _enter_ the Nationalist Parliament!


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XVII

         ANGORA III.—THE MARVELLOUS ATMOSPHERE OF A GREAT BIRTH


IN all my wanderings, East and West, over Europe and America, I have
nowhere been so much thrilled by a dominating sense of “real effort” as
at Angora. Against a background of prehistoric civilisations, the human
bees swarm in and out of their Parliament, buzzing away night and day, a
_free and independent Turkey_.

What will their “delegation” accomplish at Lausanne? Is the war only
postponed, or will there be peace? “At one moment our spirits rise to
the most daring hopes; we see ourselves marching into Constantinople. At
the next, Younous Nadi Bey reports ‘grave news’ from abroad, and
preparations for war are resumed.”

The colonel persists in “doubt” towards England. “Do you know,” said I,
“I am astonished at my own superiority?”

He was not convinced, but demanded chapter and verse.

“We both love Turkey; but I also love your country and you dislike mine.
Therefore, am I not immensely your superior?”

                  *       *       *       *       *

In a sense, no doubt, we exaggerate things away here in Angora. If
Europe could ever realise what “a free and independent Turkey” really
means to her own people, the miracle would still seem no more than one
tiny step forward in the interests of the world. Yet sometimes I wonder
over the words of Cardinal Gasparri: “Turkey has not only dictated to
England, but to France and Italy as well.”

And now, here in Angora, I see them coming along their one wide road.
All mingled without a thought of social distinctions; all intent upon
the same goal—their country’s freedom; all alike proud of the price they
have paid—officers and deputies, ministers and civil servants, soldiers,
peasants, and caravan-drivers. Are not these, then, the one true
democracy of the world?

“If I resent being called American,” I told my friends here, “it
certainly is _not_ because I dislike democracy. In Western practice,
alas, it has been like ‘freedom for women’—so imperfectly carried out.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

From its original bungalow design, the building of the Grand Nationalist
Assembly still retains a certain resemblance to the club-pavilion. But
considerable extensions are being put forward as rapidly as a climate
that only varies from ten to fifteen degrees below zero will permit;
while its commanding position, and the care bestowed upon the entrance
and grounds, are admirably calculated to uphold the honour and dignity
of the Nationalist flag overhead.

There is a large ante-room on the left as you enter, where I generally
spent a good part of the day, after my first visit to the Assembly,
occasionally finding my way into the actual Debate. There were always
coffee and cigarettes in the ante-room; and it was there I met
practically all the ministers and deputies, who must, at last, have
grown weary of my endless questions on every conceivable aspect of their
ideals and their activities. “You must accept me,” I said, in
half-serious apology, “as a self-constituted Father Confessor” to the
new nation he loves and admires so much.

Across the corridor, too, I was allowed sometimes to say “good
afternoon” over a cup of coffee to “the Pasha” (as M. Kemal is here
known to all) in his Presidential Bureau.

Honestly, I believe the men “understood” all my questions, however
indiscreet, and did not take offence. They seemed so eager for me to
meet _everyone_ and learn _everything_.

It was, indeed, a very pleasant and most human pursuit of knowledge—a
continual succession of brilliant and zealous men, interpreting
themselves and their dreams to an eager listener.

Among other matters, I was particularly anxious to know whether
Constantinople or Angora was to be the _permanent_ capital of the new
State, and to understand all the reasons that would determine their
choice.

I love every inch of Constantinople. There are obvious and important
religious-historical associations with its mosques and its public
buildings; comfort and dignity, space and beauty, are, as it were,
already at hand. Yet, paradoxical as it may seem, to me it lacks, and
will always lack, the marvellous atmosphere of a Great Birth that so
impresses one in Angora.

The Turks, I found, were unanimous in having a similar preference and,
naturally, put forward more precise and practical reasons for their
choice. There may be occasion for a _temporary_ sojourn in
Constantinople.

_But_ they want an “Asiatic” capital; they want to govern their own
country beyond the reach of possible interference from dreadnoughts;
they want to maintain an intimate continuity of association with the
cradle of the movement that begot the State.

There is, moreover, a primitive and Asiatic charm in Angora, which
should serve, as it were, to “keep them holy” from the materialisms and
the intrigues of Western commerce-Empires.

Here we are all brothers, fellow-labourers in a common cause. All have
suffered—at Malta, in Egypt, or from corrupt Ottoman Imperial
Government. Could such union and natural intimacy exist elsewhere?

The “Brotherhood” of the East does not mean anything like our various
forms of socialism. The “democracy” or almost complete ignoring of class
distinctions, does not destroy, or even modify, the inherited respectful
submission of illiterate peasants to their “superiors” in intellect,
authority, or military power. Their religion teaches them to obey.

It _does_ mean a universal recognition of identity of interest; that the
“good of all” is every man’s good and every man’s responsibility; that
all have _equal_ rights to know what can be done for them by the State,
to give their opinions, to express their wishes or their complaints, and
to be heard with courteous attention. You feel that literally the whole
nation is being busy about its welfare and its hopes.

With us, of course, the submerged proletariat could not practise (and
would not be _allowed_ to practise) such _real_ equality without
perpetual self-assertion and loud outcries against the “slavery” of the
past.

Every Turk, in his degree, has always been content with so little. His
personal nature is uncomplaining, from a combination of fine feeling and
what in us would mean lack of courage. Herein lies at once their great
weakness and their great strength.

Even the “new,” _soi-disant_ “arrogant” Turk does not complain. He may
intend to, he may assure us that he will. Western friends, no doubt, are
often tempted to wish him the master of a little more push and noise.
Longer intimacy and a more sympathetic understanding, however, will cure
us of this mistake. Were he not so supersensitive all the time, did he
attempt our rush methods of progress, he would soon cease to be himself
and lose the fine mystic idealism for which no sacrifice has been too
great, no passion of waiting and working too prolonged.

They will not yet set up a Republic, as we understand the word. No
nation on earth has less capacity or inclination for Bolshevism. There
could never be any common chord between their faith and the principles
of Lenin and Trotsky. One hears so much of the Red influence behind
Nationalist demands that it is well to meet these men in their own
houses (truly “in labour” for a Nation’s birth) to see and know that
such accusations are absolutely false. Soviet Russia has been a “friend
in need” to the Turks, and may befriend them again; but—_nothing more_.

The overpowering magnificence of the Bolshevik Embassy may be a measure
of their designs, but carries no proof of achievement. When personages
like Fethi Bey and Rauf Bey are working in tiny offices no better than
glorified barns, one does not, of course, like to see the Soviets in
possession of the only large and well-appointed building in the town.
There is a staff of seventy, including an army of typists. The attachés
are well supplied with cars, carriages, and other Western luxuries,
paying their bills with gold Russian roubles.

They are allowed to distribute Red literature, though no one in Turkey
thinks of reading it. When the Russians once sent a few Turks to Angora
to preach Bolshevism, they were promptly shot by the Nationalist
Government, _pour encourager les autres_! That was the end of Bolshevist
propaganda!

I asked one of the deputies what Turkey thought she had gained from the
Bolshevists. “When any foreign representative visits a country as
friendless as Turkey,” he replied, “and says: ‘We thoroughly approve of
all your ideas and principles; we want to show the world that we believe
in the doctrines of freedom and independence that you are preaching,’
should we turn away from the only sympathy we received?

“Besides, we had many frontiers to defend; at least by shaking hands
with the Soviet we secured _one_ frontier. I know that this simple act
of grateful friendship has been much discussed and severely criticised
in Europe. It may have done us great harm; but beggars cannot be
choosers. Who else stretched out a hand of friendship?”

“And gold and arms?” I inquired. “Forgive my indiscretion.”

“A very little gold,” he replied, “not a penny more than two million
Turkish pounds. We had arms from all nations, no more from Russia than
from Czecho-Slovakia. It will surprise you to know that most of them
were bought from England and Greece.”

“But where could you get the money?” I next inquired.

“From our Anatolian population. In no other country, would the people
have accepted such heavy taxation upon their lands, their cattle, and
their corn. No other country has been driven to resist the whole world
in defence of her very existence. Our taxes must have reached 75 per
cent. So you see that if Europe does not care to help us, we can manage
for ourselves, and waste no tears over her in difference.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Certain European papers have published a report that Camerad Areloff has
been admitted to the Cabinet Councils of New Turkey. When an Ambassador
from Angora was asked why her Government did not contradict the obvious
falsehood, he retorted: “If any paper, in any country, announced that
your British Ambassador was taking part in the Councils of the French
Cabinet, would your Government protest?” It was readily acknowledged
that we should consider such a statement to be entirely beneath our
notice.

“Of course you would,” said the Turk; “and we take precisely the same
view.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

When I arrived at the Assembly one afternoon the band was playing in the
gardens—a strange accompaniment, I thought, to the serious business of
Parliament. I asked one of the deputies whether this was a national
holiday, or a day of thanksgiving for the arrival of the ex-Khalif at
Malta? It was lucky for me that the rather dangerous little joke only
raised a smile, while he explained that, as the Imperial Band had fled
from Constantinople with the Nationalists, its loyalty must be
acknowledged and its services utilised. It did, in fact, play here for a
short time every day. Now I remembered that I had heard bands also in
Smyrna and Constantinople.

It was graciously suggested that I should choose something myself for
the band to play, and I asked that we might have some Turkish music. One
of the deputies, it appeared, had written an opera; and after listening
with great pleasure to some selections from his work, I was introduced
to the composer. The opera, naturally written round the cause, is full
of a pathos that brings tears to the eyes of an understanding audience.
They also gave me a patriotic love song—the reunion of two lovers
(Anatolia and Roumelia) after long years of separation—which I should
like to have heard again and brought away with me. Its beauty was
haunting, though not quite easy to follow at a first hearing.

For Roumelia, we know, her share in the horrors of war is over. Now it
is Anatolia who must suffer. Trouble was even fomented among the tribes.
First, the rebellion of the Roums, who were encouraged to stand for
private independence; then the hostility of the Alewites, and the
rebellion of Armenians in Cilicia; finally a rising of Circassian
tribes—Durdje, Khandeke, Adabazar. Naturally again, the men to whom
Abdul Medjid had given the villayet of Sivas, after the horrible
massacres of 1864, were loyal to the Khalif’s successor and furious at
any idea of Nationalist interference.

The course of true love between these two nations had not run smoothly.
No wonder their reunion should be celebrated with such appealing
remorse!

                  *       *       *       *       *

The President of the Assembly, Mustapha Kemal Pasha, was talking to me
one day of the French Revolution, and compared what he called his own
“very elegant” beginning with the poor little Assembly in which Michelet
had to work, with its single table and just a couple of chairs!

Here, in addition to the large ante-room and M. Kemal’s bureau, the
Vice-President, Adnan Bey, husband of Halidé Edib Hanoum—has his bureau;
and the actual Assembly Hall (built for concerts) is a fine room, with
its Strangers’ and Press Galleries, its platform, and Speaker’s desk.

The Speaker (in this case the Vice-President) appeared to me to be
ringing his bell for order all the time; but the whole scene recalls the
French Chamber of Deputies, and here, too, they all talk at once and
interrupt each other without ceremony.

When I mentioned to “the Pasha” how strange it seemed to me that a
Parliament should be so noisy, Fethi Bey explained by describing to his
chief the dignity of our proceedings at Westminster.[1] He proved, once
more, to be a keen observer, quick to decide and act, though a man of
few words. His cold reception in London did not diminish his keen
interest in our civilisation, which appeals to him immensely, and which
he was always ready to praise. He told me he wanted to go back to
England, this time incognito, and really master all the institutions,
activities, and policies of the country, in order to explain us to his
own people.

Footnote 1:

  Fortunately he saw us on our best behaviour at Westminster.

I only wish that he could make time for such a mission. The interfering
propaganda of Europe has made Turkish nationalism very touchy. One
certainly cannot blame them for any suspicion or readiness to take
offence, nor wonder at the reception they might accord to offers of help
from even the best foreign specialists whom they had not themselves
elected to invite or consult. The fight for freedom has been
single-handed, and the price too heavy for them to endure a thought of
taking the slightest risk.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I noticed one more evidence of Democracy in this Hall of Assembly. There
is absolutely no formal division, either by rank or office, in the
seating accommodation. The deputies sit anywhere, each at a sort of
school-desk, and when the President comes in to hear a debate, he simply
looks round for the first vacant seat.

There is, however, a tribune for speeches in front of the Speaker’s
table, from which I enjoyed much fluent and animated oratory. The Turks
speak mostly without notes and their constant gestures recall the
French. Others, however, no doubt partly from my not knowing the
language, produced a similar impression to that of prayers in a Jewish
synagogue.

The Assembly is never closed, each member, however, being entitled to
three months’ holiday. At this time about two hundred were in attendance
and crowded the hall to overflowing. The total membership is three
hundred and forty.

I am not allowed to forget that it was England who really created the
Nationalist Assembly—May 16, 1920, is the historic date—when we took
possession of the Turkish Parliament in Constantinople, and the patriots
(a hundred and fifty of the most enlightened Turks) were imprisoned at
Malta. Then it was that Nationalism demanded, and set up, its own
Assembly.

Men from Malta and the other deputies who escaped from Constantinople
form two-thirds of the present Parliament; the remaining third have been
elected in the country itself.

Its composition is, indeed, unique, representing all sorts and
conditions of men, as varied in age, social position, and dress as they
are in ideas.

As I looked down from the gallery on this strange, eager group, my eye
was caught by the picturesque figure of that “ancient of days,” the
Deputy for Dersim. Diab is a Kurd, ninety years old, who speaks Turkish
with difficulty. A tall, erect old man, with a long white beard and
large piercing blue eyes that need no aid from glasses; he wears the
tribal head-dress and robes, carrying an amber chaplet. Though the only
deputy who can neither read nor write, he is a great personage in his
own country, the chief of an important tribe. As, however, he has only
twice spoken in the Assembly, we may suppose that the mountain
population are generally able to settle their own grievances outside
Angora. He tells me that, like most of his constituents, he lives almost
entirely upon goats’ milk and bread, and that, as many of them have
reached their hundred and twentieth year, he himself is reckoned a young
man!

Curiously enough, however, it is the Dancing Dervishes who have sent up
one of the most progressive spirits to the Assembly. The “Grand
Tchelebi,” too, is a picturesque figure in his long brown cylinder felt
hat and ecclesiastical robes. Descended from an even older family than
Osman’s, he yet voted with the Hodjas for the dethronement of the
ex-Khalif.

The hostility of many deputies towards the Hodjas is rather puzzling;
but the journalist who said, “These men cannot think as we think,” may
be right. He added: “Every big nation except the English has recognised
the wisdom of separating Church and State. Yet when we advocate the same
policy we are severely censured.” It is also stated that the Hodjas
themselves cannot keep pace with the most progressive among the leaders,
and are, therefore, quite willing to stand outside the Councils of the
State. The Assembly no doubt would not suffer any religious element to
hamper progress or interfere with its newly acquired freedom and
independence.

The predominance of military uniforms will strike any Western observer;
but one should remember the country is still at war. A few still wear
the fez; but the very great majority have adopted the more picturesque
kalpak, that varies in colour from grey and brown to black, and must be
comfortable and warm in winter.

There are, naturally, many of the special difficulties in this Assembly
that are inseparable from all beginnings of progress, in a country with
no experience of self-government. The more illiterate deputies, for
example, know nothing of Europe, and regard everything Western with
bitter hostility and distrust. On the other hand, I met one day a
brilliant Socialist munition-worker who, having studied Karl Marx and
Arthur Henderson, wants to establish a precise replica of English trade
unionism in Turkey—which God forbid!

There are some simple farm labourers, shopkeepers, lawyers, doctors who
have studied in Paris, newspaper editors, University professors, and
Valis.

The most enlightened speak practically every language in Europe, and are
thoroughly well acquainted with public life on the Continent. They stand
for the Freedom of Women, and did their best to make Halidé Hanoum a
member of the Assembly. They would be perfectly at home in our most
exclusive drawing-rooms; yet they work well, in the Cabinet itself, with
men absolutely ignorant of any country except their own. “Social, or
class, differences,” I am told, “have no place in any Parliament. They
are created by Society women outside!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

During the Conference at Lausanne, the papers published a scandalous
statement that “a deputy could purchase a seat in the Assembly for ten
gold Turkish pounds!” As a matter of fact, all Turkish elections are
very carefully controlled by inspectors and the municipal authorities.
No one who knows anything of M. Kemal and his colleagues would dream of
imagining that this form of bribery or purchase could be allowed.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Smarting under the policy of Malta (not unlike that of Daudet’s hero,
who locked his goat in a room but forgot to close the window), the Grand
“_National_” Assembly lives up to its name, and is, above all,
anti-everything that could interfere with real freedom. For three and a
half years of untold hardship and self-sacrifice the gospel of
Nationalism has schooled the people. It is their religion to-day, from
the “Pasha” himself to the humblest shepherd of the hills.

At Angora we read the papers and talk politics all day; at night we
dream of the National Pact. Everyone watches for foreign telegrams; we
all attend the Assembly; the statesmen work without ceasing through the
twenty-four hours. The genius of M. Kemal as military chief and civil
organiser is unequalled.

Why, then, do the nations doubt? Turks to-day are fully determined to
run their own country; they will find the necessary ability and will
suffer no interference. Europe has so far condemned them unheard and
refused them a square deal. We must change all that and see to it that
the East may have her chance!

The more closely I have studied the National Assembly the greater
confidence I feel.


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                             CHAPTER XVIII

    THE GHAZI MUSTAPHA KEMAL PASHA—THE GREATEST MAN IN TURKEY TO-DAY


NOW that I know Angora, I must know also its Nationalist hero.

Fethi Bey has invited me this afternoon to meet the President at the
Assembly. The Lausanne Conference is beginning—perhaps he will give me
his impressions.

From the window of the antechamber I saw the Pasha arrive, attended only
by one aide-de-camp. There is, of course, absolutely no foundation for
the stories that he is even more strictly guarded than Lenin, among a
people who trust and love him!

It is not necessary to see M. Kemal Pasha to realise that he is the
greatest man in Turkey to-day, quite apart from his actual achievements.
He has, indeed, accomplished miracles; but it is rather the universal
attitude of the people by which one measures the man. I feel that my
host’s regard for me was definitely increased when I had had lunch with
Mustapha Kemal. The servants announce the “Pasha, Pasha”—no need for a
more precise name.

Should one hold him greater as statesman, soldier, or orator? since he
is past-master in all three aspects. Personally, I am more grateful to
him who prevents war than to the conqueror. It is as a statesman that I
met him, and I will therefore first consider his political ideals and
work.

Great events create great men, and it is but once in the life of a
nation that situations so grave as that which found Mustapha Kemal are
ever likely to arise. He rose out of the terror of the Hamidian régime,
the years that followed, and the humiliation of _occupied_ Smyrna. It
needed, however, the suffering and sorrow to which all reformers must
serve their apprenticeship to mould his character and to bring him where
he now stands. It was the long-suffering martyrdom one saw in the face
of his late mother that forced him to realise what he must do, and he
has never faltered from the goal.

Only here, beside them, can one understand all the Government has had to
do in Angora, and see for oneself how the whole flock still look to this
one man for courage and inspiration. Had _he_ lost faith in the goal or
in his capacity to reach it, all would have been lost. “Freedom for
Turkey or death for the Turks” has been his motto throughout the years.

I suppose that, however often one may proclaim it, they will not believe
who have not seen, a new Turkey is born into the world. It is, indeed,
idle to weep over the days that are dead and gone, when the Turk counted
for nothing in his own land; when the foreigner ruled the roost, and
ambassadors were princes! The new Turk has arrived; the member of a new
nation. No important demand was made at Lausanne by Turkey that any
self-respecting people could be asked to forgo.

And yet the Powers are still attempting to treat with “old” Turkey! We
have no longer to maintain our officious, if well-meant, interference on
behalf of disloyal minorities; to insist, _par exemple_, that Christians
shall be exempted from military service, as America never exempted her
negro population.

[Illustration:

  THE GHAZI MUSTAPHA KEMAL PASHA.
  PRESIDENT OF THE GRAND NATIONAL ASSEMBLY, ANGORA.
  (Signed portrait presented to the Author).
  p. 160
]

No wonder, again, M. Kemal has been more than tempted to wish (what, for
no other reason, he could desire) to abolish religion altogether, after
the imposition upon Constantinople of that arch-intriguer the Greek
Patriarch! When France and Italy recognised the “State” Church for the
parasite that may, at any moment, suck up its life-blood, they cast the
Church aside. Confronted at the very outset by a precisely similar
danger, Mustapha Kemal at once cut off the Khalifat from the Assembly
and considerably limited the power of the Hodjas, a far more difficult
operation than French disestablishment. Yet we expect him a second time
to expose himself to the intrigues of a Greek Patriarch!

He is, as a fact, far more leniently inclined towards the Greeks and
Armenians than any other Turkish statesman. He sees even their wanton
destruction of Anatolia as no more than the outburst of a misguided
people, the victims of bigger, intriguing Powers. He would rather
welcome their return to loyalty than give their place in commerce to the
Jews, from the humane conviction that they have no homes outside Turkey.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The home life of Mustapha Kemal, literally given to his country,
involves severe daily self-sacrifice. From month to month he allows
himself no recreation, no change of scene, no intercourse with the
world’s culture. Among these lonely mountains he cannot break the
monotony by going to a play or to a concert; he does not hunt or follow
any kind of sport; and even Nature, at least in winter, is scarcely
kind.

His life is one of continual mental and physical effort: reading,
studying, and planning, seeing everyone, for they all want to see “The
Pasha” and not the second in command. To me he seems like a professor,
who must be forever explaining to his people what their Nationalism
really means. Perhaps the nearest historical parallel to his abounding
personality is that of Julius Cæsar; and one is tempted to hope that he,
too, may find time to leave us the “Commentaries.” The world would know
how to value what the Turks need put on record, the thought of this keen
and alert mind which is able to interpret, if not supplement, the Koran
for modern conditions and aspirations. They have, as it were, many
centuries of progress to catch up; and, fortunately, he is no blind
respecter of _tyrannical_ religious or historic traditions that hamper
advance to freedom. A commentary of great value could be compiled from
his thoughtful and stirring speeches.

It may be that, as in art the highest form is simplest, we shall, after
all, see the perfect Democracy in the East. The ideals of President
Wilson have been discarded as impossible; Russia has signally failed to
carry out the teachings of Karl Marx. Mustapha Kemal Pasha, at least,
has put _his_ doctrine in practice to the acknowledged advantage of a
country in the “Slough of Despond.”

Turkish statesmen maintain to-day that any form of a Second Chamber
remains only the unfit survival of decadent Monarchies and Empires, that
the Single Chamber is the most perfect machine for Government, avoiding
friction and delay.

Time alone can prove!

                  *       *       *       *       *

At my first interview with “The Pasha” he was wearing a big astrakhan
kalpak, pushed well down over his forehead, and smoking cigarette after
cigarette. Though busy receiving ministers and deputies in the
Presidential Bureau, he was at the same time waiting, as it were, for
the right moment to sum up the whole situation in one final and decisive
reply that could not fail to end all discussion. This power to drive
right through a subject, to find the way out and take it, is one of the
chief sources of his unique authority.

He was ready, however, for a sociable cup of coffee, and immediately
asked for news of England. Fethi Bey reminded him of a few scenes from
life to which I had introduced him in London, including dinner at a
Ladies’ Club. Most women would admire the picturesquely weatherbeaten
tint of the Pasha’s complexion, though the piercing, almost stern,
glance of the eye should remind you that you will do well to say clearly
and quietly what you have to say—and go! Though so businesslike and
energetic, he has a beautifully modulated voice. His French is
well-chosen; in Turkish he is an orator. Here, then, are the face and
the expression of a conqueror, but the voice is the voice of a cultured
man of the world.

Next morning Mustapha Kemal sent his car (a present from the people of
Smyrna) that I might be driven to his villa at Tchan-Kaya, almost twenty
minutes’ ride from Angora. This is the best road in the district; the
others are just rows of holes and bumps on which someone has thrown some
cobbles and, incidentally, some houses! Though Tchan-Kaya was given to
him by the people, he has handed over this property to the army, and
lives there as their guest—surely an unusual, but charming, example of
brotherly love. I wonder whether the Pasha will do the same in the house
I saw, also presented to him, at Broussa, which an historian and
architect came over from Constantinople to redecorate.

From Tchan-Kaya one obtains an excellent bird’s-eye view of Angora;
whether at midday or at sunset, sprinkled with, or buried in, snow,
always picturesque. We get a few hours of sunshine every morning until
quite late in the year; enough to welcome the beautiful white minarets,
so marked a feature in every Eastern scene, whence the muezzin calls the
faithful to prayer five times a day. Dotted over the hills of Tchan-Kaya
we see the Pasha’s special guard—the Lasz—wearing a uniform our ladies
would be delighted, I think, to copy in velvet or satin. The fashion,
however, would only suit those who, like these soldiers from Trébizonde,
are tall, slight, and well-built.

At the door one gladly accepts the vociferous greeting of a fine brown
retriever. Then comes the aide-de-camp, Mahmoud Bey, always ready with a
gay smile for his chief’s guests, who leads one straight into the house.

The kiosk is large and well-built. In the combination of hall and
ante-room a white marble fountain is always playing. One of the two
pianos in Angora stands in a corner; these are both, alas, more
ornamental than useful, made, one could guess, somewhere about 55 B.C.!
A large desk, some fine plants, and the usual Turkish or Persian rugs
complete the furniture. One door leads into the Pasha’s mother’s
apartments, the other to his own sitting-room.

[Illustration:

  On the wall of Mustapha Kemal Pasha’s study the Sultan Osman, first of
    the House of Osman, looks down on Mustapha Kemal Pasha, who has
    ended the dynasty.
]

I could scarcely believe that I was speaking to the legislator, as my
host rose to greet me from his Western red-leather sofa. Without his
kalpak, his fair hair, well brushed back, his close-cropped moustache,
his well-tailored clothes with the correct crease, would surely carry
him through a London drawing-room without a guess that he was not
English, or, at any rate, not from the North. Again, his keen sense of
humour is not common among the Turks, and it was a delight to find how
heartily he joined in the laugh which his delightful stories provoked.

I am told that the Pasha’s type and colouring are not uncommon in his
native Roumelia—as ever, the North is fair!

Noticing some “Napoleon” literature on one of the writing-tables, I
regretted that “I had not thought of bringing a book about the ‘little
Corsican,’ instead of merely offering my congratulations on a
magnificent victory.”

“Please never think of such a thing,” he replied. “He interests me as a
great general, but——”

“I understood your interest amounted almost to veneration, or so it is
said.”

“What a strange rumour! I naturally study all the great strategists; but
to compare the Sakharia with Austerlitz is surely no great compliment.”

[Illustration:

  The Ante-room at Tchan-Kaya.
]

Though I confess to being considerably startled by this emphatic
declaration, it reminded me of a conversation with Monsieur Clemenceau
some years before the war.

“He told me,” I said, “that he considered Lord Rosebery’s enthusiastic
admiration of Napoleon had been almost a blot on his own political
career.... ‘Where is the greatness of that vain egoist?’ asked the
outspoken Frenchman. ‘I consider myself a hundred times greater, for
this simple reason: When Napoleon came down he fell for ever. When I, or
my country, are down, then I am at my greatest and best.’”

Though M. Kemal could smile at the Gallic boasting, while honouring the
boaster, his own criticism was more quietly expressed:

“Napoleon put ambition first. He fought for himself, _not_ for ‘the
Cause’—with the inevitable _débâcle_.”

As I listen to Mustapha Kemal, taking advantage the while of his
gracious invitation to thaw my frozen toes and hands at the wood fire, I
wonder what a “keen soldier” would not have given to be in my place,
with the chance of hearing a private lecture from one of the world’s
great generals, a man not more than forty.

“Were you ever in doubt of success?” I asked.

“No, never,” he replied. “I saw the whole scheme from the first (even
when we had no munitions), just as it finally worked out. We delayed—to
save bloodshed and devastation. Fethi Bey went to London as a last
resource, because we wanted a treaty—in ink, not in blood.”

Is not that last effort for peace, perhaps, this great man’s finest
gesture to a war-ridden generation? Knowing the glory he could win for
himself, in the certainty of strength for conquest, he yet made three
separate attempts to persuade the Powers to enforce a peaceful
retirement upon the Greeks. Preparation is not relaxed; no detail has
been forgotten; the peasant armies are ready in Anatolia, wondering why,
since peace lingers, the Great Chief does not fight!

One of his generals told me later: “You cannot judge “The Pasha” until
you have seen him commanding his army. No man could be more fearless,
more hard on himself, or kinder to his men. He simply ignores pain,
though a rib be driven into his lungs; and when he leads them, the
soldiers know all is well. ‘His star is good,’ they say, and they have
no use for generals in the East for whom the stars are known to predict
ill. His mind works rapidly to clear decisions. Above all, he never
loses his head, and his judgment is sound.”

Without this universal, unstinting affection and esteem from both
officers and men, Mustapha Kemal could never have established the
Assembly and created a new Turkey. When he had thus realised the vision
of his ardent youth, that never left him through years of exile, revolt,
and disgrace; when, at any moment now, he could declare himself
Dictator, he will not steal responsibility from the people’s
representatives. “The Assembly,” he says, “is not one man; I am only its
President.”

He dislikes hearing the word “Kemalist.” “It does not carry with it the
spirit of the movement, which will go on, whether I am dead or alive.”

If one speaks to him about his own work, he either answers: “I did my
duty,” or refers all honour to the Assembly.

I have talked with many of Europe’s great statesmen, but found none more
modest than he. Yet who among them has snatched such triumph from odds
as opposing?

                  *       *       *       *       *

The furniture of this little room is, of course, all “native.” The
dinner-service comes from Kutahia, the carpets and rugs are Anatolian.
On the walls hang jewelled swords and other trophies or souvenirs, sent
in homage from Moslem rulers to the conqueror they all acknowledge. He
may endeavour to efface himself, to glory in his simplicity and set up a
real democracy; but the stamp of his personality is on the whole Moslem
world; he holds in his hand the keys of Islam. Nationalism has now
acquired a deep religious significance; the Pact is a “decalogue” none
may deny.

A well-known Turkish writer has boldly compared the movement with
Christianity; humbly born, bringing suffering to all, death and
martyrdom to many—for an Ideal of the Spirit no human enemy can crush.

Who touches Turkey, with Right behind her, will set all Islam on fire to
put down Might.

[Illustration:

  Mustapha Kemal Pasha’s Sitting-room.
]

In Egypt they speak of “Holy Angora,” and, wherever future assemblies
may meet, she will be always sacred. An Egyptian princess, I notice,
uses capitals when referring to the Ghazi Pasha as “He” or “Him.” If
only the delegates at Lausanne could have managed to peep behind the
scenes at Angora! If they still considered the Nationalist demands
unreasonable, they could scarcely have failed to pause before the
deep-rooted fanaticism they have inspired.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The Pasha is nothing if not frank. He has no time for bluff, though his
pride was stung by the idle boasting of our ex-Premier: “You’ve got to
speak to these people with guns.”

No charge could be more ridiculous or untrue than to say that Mustapha
Kemal is ever influenced by Camerad Areloff. Bolshevism and Nationalism
are poles apart. Yet the Pasha could scarcely refuse invitations to
conversation with any credited representative from a country like
Russia; though no words of his are likely to change M. Kemal’s
invariable habit of using his _own_ judgment and making up his _own_
mind.

Though he seldom speaks without a practical purpose, I was honoured by
an intimacy that nearly approached that of an old school friend. There
were changes, however, to rather puzzling reserve, almost frigid
politeness, in his case probably not caused by any reminder of my
nationality. He knows not only whom, but when, to trust, and I suppose I
had unwittingly opened some dangerous topic.

                  *       *       *       *       *

One almost wishes at times that he need not live so perpetually in the
heat of the fray. Driven, perhaps, by greater intelligence or stricter
integrity, to some unpopular action, he might lose his halo, or at least
dim its lustre, while the new country was still too unstable for any
weakening of his guiding hand. There are fanatical members of the
Assembly who, _bien entendu_, are far more extreme than he, whose
unchecked counsels might spell disaster. I sought, indeed, for the
opposition within of which we have heard so much, and found only a very
small group of rather small-minded men, at present with little power.

Nevertheless, foolish measures, that might prove a real menace, and were
certainly false to true freedom, have been put forward and discussed.
The schemes for excluding Albanians and Arabs from the Assembly, and for
requiring five years’ residence in one place, hit “The Pasha” himself.
Telegrams of angry protest came in from all quarters, and he soon
stopped the mischief. Others, however, may prove more difficult. The
opposition seem to me seeking in Nationalism—“_midi à 14 heures_,” as
the French say.

At present he is not only adored by those who trust him and gave up all
to follow him, but respected and admired by those recently serving the
Sultan, who had not the courage to believe that right must triumph and
truth prevail.

I believe that his personality could always dominate the Assembly at
Angora, and there is unquestionably no possible foundation for the
reported rivalry of Kiazim Kara Békir. They are the best of friends,
each conspicuously loyal to the other, and Kiazim Kara Békir is far too
proud of his leader to want his place.

I foresee, however, that even his clearest instructions may sometimes be
badly interpreted, and thus bring blame for what he has not done and
never intended. There will be difficulties again in certain foreign
relations, because the most loyal Nationalists, for whom justice and
gratitude alike demand reward, will not all be so well fitted as the
existing diplomats for the embassies of Europe.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Though no one could have suspected it from his manner, I learnt that my
Angora host had been seriously alarmed at the prospect of receiving an
Englishwoman into his household. His first impressions, however, were
unexpectedly in my favour. And the ladies agreed: “You are just like our
Pasha—fair hair and blue eyes. You might be his sister.” It was the
highest possible compliment, the best possible passport.

Mustapha Kemal found time to be no less hospitable, and often treated me
to a concert of Anatolian songs with the oute (or stringed guitar)
accompaniment. It was at his house I first tasted the most delicious of
Turkish confections, “_poulet à la Circassienne_,” that is chicken with
nut sauce. It was frequently offered to me after that; but, alas, like
all things Turkish, even their “light” pastry _Bereks_, it is as
fattening as it is appetising.

One afternoon “the Pasha” joined us to pay visits to the houses
surrounding his kiosk. We made a strange party: the Ghazi Pasha and his
aide-de-camp, the Englishwoman, and a big white ram! The magnificent
goats of Anatolia follow one about and welcome caresses such as we
lavish on a pet dog. The Armenians weave handsome shawls from their
silky hair. Angora is also famous for its cats and its rabbits.

[Illustration:

  Mustapha Kemal Pasha Walking in the Grounds of Tchan-Kaya.
]

Naturally, the “veiled” tenants stood in too great awe of their Pasha to
say much, so we first walked on to inspect the new family of a favourite
dog, then visited another happy family of geese and chickens and the
horses! Like many Orientals, M. Kemal is over-merciful to his beasts,
who are apt to grow fat and lazy from insufficient exercise.

Mustapha Kemal always says, and means, that everyone has a right to come
and see him. He enjoys talking with peasants, and pays a generous
tribute to their sterling worth. But in Turkey, some mysterious inborn
tact prevents the uncultured from awkward attempts at intrusion upon his
superior, however brotherly the hand of friendship between them. It is,
however, almost impossible to compare the two countries, for, despite
the Moslem’s respect for authority in every shape or form, rank and
family do _not_ count with him as with us, and the feudal habits, of
which no so-called democracy can cure us, must appear strange indeed to
these simple folk.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I have been privileged to hear “the Pasha” explaining the new Turkey he
has created, expressing all his ideas, hopes, fears and anxieties; and
this, at what is perhaps the very summit of his career, when his nation
has just entered upon her existence of freedom and independence.

Yet I hesitate before the attempt to analyse or to describe the
character and political achievement of this man; to convey all the
subtlety and the strength of his mind. The complexities, and the
apparent contradictions, of the Oriental are always baffling to the
West; while, though far superior to vanity, the Pasha knows his own
value and takes himself, as it were, too much for granted, to encourage
or assist others in the dissection of his character. I can but rest on
the tolerance all great men extend to our judgments, if prompted by
sincerity and justice and a love of truth. As it is written in the
proverbs of old Japan: “If your judgments are tempered by the dictates
of truth, the gods will protect you, even though you offer no prayers to
them.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

We are naturally enthusiastic before a New Turkey, built out of nothing.
Surely these people are capable of carrying on? If some ask: “Will this
man lose his head?” we answer: “He has not done so under the strongest
temptation. Why should we fear?... He has not made himself Dictator; he
has refused wealth and honour; he has abolished ‘decorations!’”

When the work of reconstruction begins in real earnest, when the
country, so rich in minerals and with so fertile a soil, can be
developed in peace to the best advantage; then I, for one—now I know
him—believe “The Pasha” will prove to us that he can unite his people no
less wisely in the building up of their fatherland than in saving it
from tyranny and interference.

The Nationalists have had their warning from mistakes made by the
Committee of Union and Progress, against the only real danger one can
reasonably foresee, that of teaching the people to run before they have
learnt to walk.

To all who would see the vision realised of an established, strong, and
well-governed new Turkey, I only say: “Take care of your Pasha, for ‘his
value is above rubies.’”


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XIX

            AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GHAZI MUSTAPHA KEMAL PASHA


THE Ghazi M. Kemal Pasha granted me the following interview just after
the conference at Lausanne had assembled.

“To what extent, if any, has the attitude of the Grand National Assembly
been responsible for setting public opinion against the Turks?” I asked.

“Our attitude has never changed. All reports of inconsistency are false,
and circulated by the clever propaganda of our enemies. The Government
has to render account of itself not only to a Chamber of Deputies, but
to History; and no responsible or self-respecting Ministry could act
with such disloyalty to its own principles, the very spirit of its
being, as the Press has accused it of revealing. All these false reports
come from those Englishmen, some of them official, who are working to
prolong the war, a crime no one can lay on our shoulders. You know of
the untiring efforts we made for peace, and you know the result. In any
case, though personally accused, I am not responsible. I am only
President of the Assembly. The Assembly is not one man.”

“Do you think that a really _sincere entente_ can be established between
Turkey and Great Britain?”

“I do not think, I am _certain_, that we shall eventually return to the
old traditional friendship. There are no reasons against, and so many in
favour of, that course. We make no demands beyond respect and honour for
our independence. We have sent away our Sultan to secure greater
freedom, and to prevent all risk of danger to our independence.”

“Do you think that the Conference will produce good results?”

“Eventually there can be no doubt that, however heated and however
prolonged the discussions, it will bring peace. Unfortunately, we cannot
wait for ever: The Powers should recognise now, what they must
ultimately admit, that we could not accept terms which would deny us
that liberty for which we have sacrificed so much and fought with such
stern resolve.

“For every reason, we desire peace; a settlement that will enable us to
get on with the vital work of reconstruction. Details must take time,
but the essential question should have been arranged before this.”

“The papers accuse Angora of arrogance and zenophobia,” I reminded him.

“The charge is invented for propaganda. Is it _arrogant_ to stand out
for our just and logical rights ? Of ‘zenophobia’ I know nothing! My
whole life, in every action, is proof that I do _not_ hate Europe. I
never fought for hate, but to save the truth. The same inspiration
guides and controls our politics.

“I could never myself keep on hating a nation for the mistakes of its
Government. I fought against the Bulgarians, who are my greatest friends
to-day.

“And towards the Greeks I feel the same. I am confident that we shall
soon be great friends, friends as we were before the Powers intervened.
As they were led away by false flatterers, they will be the first to see
their mistake and repent.”

“Have you banished the Christians, or are they leaving Anatolia in mere
panic?”

“We have taken no steps in this matter, but left them absolutely free,
to go or stay. They have been terrified by propaganda, largely American,
directed by religious animosities. While they followed the Greek army in
thousands, and are still flying, many others are coming back. To-day you
can see two long streams of refugees among us, one leaving, the other
returning. They know that all Christians, whether our own subjects or
foreigners, will always enjoy, as they _have_ always enjoyed, the full
liberties accorded them in every civilised country.”

“Are you satisfied with the situation in Constantinople?”

“We shall keep faith to the promise we made at Moudania. Meanwhile it is
unnatural to see foreign troops in Constantinople, and they should be
taken away as soon as possible. Their presence involves abnormal
conditions, which have made it necessary for us to administer that
villayet from the Assembly at Angora—an indignity which should not be
prolonged.

“While conversations are maintained in Lausanne, and since everyone
knows we must keep Constantinople, the Powers should not insist on the
armed guarantee.”

“Do you congratulate us on having secured a Conservative Government?”

“It is early days, surely, to speak! If they will help us to friendly
relations with England and the other Powers, that is all we ask. Your
parties are not our business. We are, generally speaking, against all
policies of expansion, because they lead nations into the abyss; and, in
our judgment, such policies are impolitic.”

“What are your views on the Freedom of the Straits?”

“Like the delegates at Lausanne, we want _real_ freedom, not freedom in
the hands of one Power. We are ready to discuss the problem with all who
have any interests in that quarter. There can be no freedom till
Constantinople and the Sea of Marmora are secure.

“We must have national frontiers; that is, all territories peopled by
Turks. We accept for boundaries or limit the enemy-lines as they were
when the Armistice was signed. Is that an unreasonable claim in return
for all we have given up from the old Ottoman Empire?

[Illustration:

  GENERAL ISMET PASHA.
  MINISTER FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS.
  FIRST TURKISH DELEGATE AT THE LAUSANNE PEACE CONFERENCE.
  p. 176
]

“Towards ‘minorities’ we stand by the National Pact, confirmed by the
recent Treaty with France, signed at Angora. We are fully prepared, nay
anxious, to recognise all such rights as have been given to minorities
in the different treaties between the Powers—since the war. It must,
however, be clearly understood that foreign control, inconsistent with
the absolute independence we demand, is _impossible_.

“Nor can we grant any special privileges for Capitulations to the
subjects of foreign nations who may choose to live in Turkey. They are
welcome to _precisely the same rights_ as our own subjects enjoy, but we
will never recognise any such privileges to foreigners as are unknown,
for instance, in France, England, or America. Those who would still
challenge our claim to the complete independence that we are determined
to secure will have to find means to exterminate all Turks now inspired
by that ideal. But I am confident that such a slaughter would not be
permitted by the civilised world. Civilisation, on the contrary, will
soon learn that our Turkey has her place in the future. She will help,
and not hinder, civilisation. Civilisation must, therefore, be
interested in, and support, her independence.”

On December 22nd, the _Morning Post_ printed the following leading
article about this interview:

    The interview which Mustapha Kemal Pasha has given our
    Correspondent emphasises the one supreme result so far reached
    at Lausanne, namely, that the new rulers of Turkey are willing
    and indeed anxious to resume friendly relations with this
    country. The compromise which is apparently on the point of
    being reached at Lausanne concerning the Straits and the
    demilitarised zones may not survive the touch of reality and the
    sharp breath of war. But that is no reason why we should deplore
    or despise such a settlement, for it is at least a sign of
    goodwill, an offer on the part of Turkey to come to an agreement
    with the Western Powers, who, by the strange irony of fate, are
    the real friends of Turkey and yet were forced in the Great War
    to call themselves her enemies. The Lausanne Conference has
    dealt with and perhaps settled the Thracian boundaries, the
    protection of minorities, and the guardianship of the Straits,
    and there remains for it now to secure an agreement regarding
    the capitulations, the Patriarchate, and the future of Mosul.
    But the real importance of Lausanne lies in the fact that the
    world now realises that Kemalist Turkey is not the cat’s-paw of
    Bolshevist Russia, that the Turkish Nationalists did not defeat
    one invader in order to put themselves at the mercy of another,
    and that the ambitious plan of Moscow for using Turkey as a pawn
    in the great game of destroying British dominion in the East is
    in all probability doomed to failure. It is too early yet to say
    that the Bolshevicks have been outwitted, but both in their
    silences and their speeches there are evidences of chagrin. They
    have found out that Lausanne is not Genoa and that, if we may
    thus describe him, Curzon _libre_ is a very different person
    from Curzon _enchaîné_. Chicherin had his Rapallo. Perhaps it
    was his final triumph.

    Kemal, in his interview, said: “I am certain we shall eventually
    return to the traditional friendship between Turkey and Britain.
    I can see no obstacle thereto.” With the fall of the Coalition
    Government, the last obstacle has gone. Lord Curzon has been
    firm with the Turks, but not venomous, frank but not insulting.
    He can afford to leave rude harangues and offensive imprecations
    to the congress of fallen angels now assembling at Algeciras.
    Indeed, all the declarations of the Foreign Secretary go to show
    that he is sincerely anxious to reach a durable and friendly
    settlement with the emissaries of Angora, and that if he is
    determined to uphold the rights of the British, he is equally
    ready to acknowledge the independence of the Turkish Empire. We
    are glad to see that Kemal is anxious to reciprocate, and
    therein he shows himself to be not only a soldier but a
    statesman. For his task is not yet ended; indeed it is only
    beginning. He has saved his country from the Greek; he must now
    save it from the moth and rust of economic decay. In that great
    task he will find Great Britain his best friend. Fethi Bey has
    doubtless made it clear to him how much Europe can contribute to
    the economic reconstruction of Turkey, and a recent statement of
    Mr. Morgenthau should convince him that the United States will
    be a reluctant and difficult lender. In the long run he has to
    choose between free co-operation with Great Britain and an
    enslavement at the mercy of Bolshevist Russia. He seems already
    to have chosen the better course; for the sake of his country,
    and ours, we hope and believe that he will persist in it.


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                               CHAPTER XX

         MUSTAPHA KEMAL PASHA—THE MAN WHO IS MASTER OF HIS FATE


MY eye fell on the portrait of a handsome Turkish lady, which was
hanging over the Pasha’s writing-desk.

“What a lovely face!” I exclaimed.

“My mother,” said the Pasha, with obvious pride.

“Would it be very indiscreet,” said I, “to ask if I might have the great
pleasure of seeing her?”

“She is very ill. The doctors are with her day and night. Alas, I fear
she can never recover.”

We afterwards went up the staircase to the invalid’s apartments. To my
surprise, we found her seated on a wide divan, supported by cushions. It
was difficult at first to believe that she was so near the end.

“Alas!” said Mustapha Kemal, “her suffering has come through me. She is
paying back now the tears and anguish she spent for me in exile.” There
was sorrow in his voice, too heart-broken for many words.

“Now you can take part in his victory,” I said. “How proud you must be
of your son. His is a wonderful story. I am proud only to have spoken
with him and seen his work.”

She thanked me with great feeling, and said she believed “God had sent
her this son to save the Fatherland—but my son is always kind to me.”

Whilst giving me a beautiful silk handkerchief, scented with her
favourite perfume, she asked whether she had not seen me before, ten
years ago, in Constantinople.

“She has a marvellous memory,” the Pasha murmured.

In a few days there were to be no more opportunities for any of us to
see this dear lady!

When, later, in Constantinople, I ventured upon some allusion to the
great devotion he always evinced to his mother, a Turk said: “That is
only natural—Oriental, if you will. The man whose hands are steeped in
blood, whose soul is black with crime, yet bows in respect to his
mother. You might as well be surprised that the sun shines.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

The story of M. Kemal’s youth and of his brilliant career is, of course,
well known in Anatolia. He was born in Salonica in 1880, and there are
legends that many who saw the boy, “fair as the corn,” at his games,
would say: “Look well at that little fellow. He will one day be the
saviour of his country.”

St. Jeanne d’Arc’s “Life,” you remember, begins with a description of
the countryside on the night of her birth—“all the animals seemed
strangely excited. There was a chorus of approval from the chickens, the
geese, and the pigs.” “Very possibly,” as a friend once commented on
this passage, “it all happened again on the night each of us was born,
but no one noticed it.”

So I will speak only of facts. A year ago, how few had even heard his
name! How often the Unknown Personality has appeared, just when hope
seemed dead, to save his country!

M. Kemal’s father died when he was quite a child, though already
attending the school of Chemsi Effendi. Then, for a few years, his
mother took him to stay with an uncle in the country, and life became
one glorious game in the sunny fields, shooting at rooks, stealing
Nature’s secrets, and flourishing on all the delights of being naughty
with no one to interfere.

Although his mother seems to have felt, however, that young minds cannot
safely be left long undisciplined, and, therefore, brought him back to
school at Salonica, the experiment did not prove a success. Like other
unusual boys, he was always in hot water and, in the end, was allowed to
come home and play at soldiers.

It was Edison’s unsympathetic schoolmistress who told _his_ mother:
“This boy’s brain is addled, we can do nothing with him.” He had given
one of his companions a seidlitz powder to find out whether the gas
would lift up his patient into the air! Mrs. Edison was wise enough to
take the boy’s education into her own hands, proving herself “the
loveliest and most wonderful teacher on God’s earth,” as he afterwards
declared.

As the Pasha’s mother did not approve of soldiering, the boy simply took
himself off to a military college, passed the examinations with
distinction, and then proudly confronted her with all his certificates!
He was both hard-working and intelligent, devoted to French and
mathematics.

But even as a schoolboy his country’s suffering must have eaten into his
ardent imagination. I was told that he would spend hours of recreation
in making speeches and organising a committee, to protest against the
tyranny of Abdul Hamid. Already he felt that an army was not enough to
save his country, and persuaded some of his schoolfellows to study
politics, sowing the seed of all he has since given to the world.

From the beginning he determined, above all, to make himself master of
every detail concerning the French Revolution; to understand, by
understanding “the people,” why it happened and how it happened, what
mistakes were made, the real ideals that inspired its passion of
sacrifice, and the permanent gains it brought to France and to mankind.

Long after all his companions were fast asleep, the young Mustapha dived
into every possible book he could lay hands on, to clear up this
fascinating subject. Next morning he would hold forth to all and sundry
upon his discoveries, and finally issued a paper with exemplary
regularity, which was widely circulated in manuscript.

Meanwhile military studies had not been neglected; He was promoted Staff
Captain, and—through under-hand channels—“recommended” to the notice of
Abdul Hamid, who promptly exiled him to Syria.

In Damascus, Beyrout, and Jaffa, his more revolutionary plans matured.
At last the Constitution was proclaimed, and he was able to join his
mother in Salonica!—not yet, however, for the quiet of a restored home
life.

At the time when the troops marched to deliver Constantinople from the
reactionaries, he was appointed Chief of Staff to Mahmoud Chefket Pasha.
During the Tripolitain War he was first at Syrenaique, and afterwards at
Benghazi.

When the Great War broke out, he was military attaché at Sofia, but was
immediately despatched to the command of a Division in the Dardanelles,
and, when this had been formed and organised, marched to Gallipoli. It
was he who defeated the English forces, not only in Gallipoli, but at
Anafarta.

After we had been driven out of the Dardanelles, he went to the Caucasus
in command of the 15th Army Corps, and recovered Bitlis and Mouche from
the Russians. For a time he led the 6th Army Corps, under the German
General Falkenhayn; but nothing could reconcile him to his chief’s
methods and the reckless loss of life they involved. He therefore
resigned and went back to Constantinople.

After accompanying the present Khalif on a visit to Hindenberg and
Ludendorff, he tells me that, when he thus first clearly saw into the
real issue of the war; he also saw, even more clearly, the need for
making his own plans in Turkey.

He was in Syria when the Armistice was signed; and returning with high
hopes to Constantinople, sank broken-hearted before the treachery of
Mudros! But not for long.

Never the man to nurse despair, he quickly rose again to his country’s
call. Offered the post of Inspector of the East (that is, High
Functionary of the Eastern Villayets), he accepted at once, and hurried
into Anatolia to prepare for resistance.

From the moment he stepped out at Samsoun, _the movement began_.

What shall we say of the “Man at the Helm—the Hero and the Genius?” Were
his “Destinies,” indeed, “written on the tablets of heaven”; or may he
not rather claim:

                        “I am Master of my Fate
                         I am Captain of my Soul”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Every detail of the work had to be built up, as it were, stone by stone,
entirely afresh—an army to be found anywhere and everywhere from
nothing. Yet it was trained and organised to become, what Colonel Mougin
tells me, is “the best-disciplined and best-officered army in the
world.”

Perhaps the Battle of the Sakharia, lasting fifteen days without
interruption, may be quoted as the Great Victory. It was certainly one
of the battles of this century. When one of the majors asked for
instructions about “the line provided for retreat,” he was told: “There
will be no retreat. Advance, or die in your trenches!”

On the anniversary of the Battle of the In-Enus, Ismet Pasha told me a
little about his victory, and what it meant. What victory _must_ mean
when you have nothing with which to conquer.

Already the military experts have written pages about the advance and
the victory. One day, we hope, “The Pasha” will give us his own version.

How, again, shall we tell the endurance of the people, suffering through
long years in silence and alone? To us who could but look on them,
pitying and admiring from a distance, it seemed as if someone _must_ get
through somehow to offer the hand of friendship and give, at least,
heartfelt sympathy. I tried, but it could not be done. Even now, I
cannot say all it has cost me to reach Angora!

Mustapha Kemal must put on record “The Birth of a Nation”; and from
Halidé Hanoum we want the thousand and one pictures of the agony of
simple folk—desolate village homes, women who weep _and_ work, the
little ones crying, “What is it, mother?”; all that war means to men,
all that men can endure for liberty and the right.

“What does it matter,” she has written, “though the world call us
pariah? We will die with honour. What does it matter if food be denied
us by all our neighbours? Our own soil will keep us alive, sheltered in
sackcloth!”

At Lausanne the patriot-passion is taunted for its arrogance. It is
forgotten that self-made nations, like men, if made with honour, have
certain rights and duties, which the most illustrious and ancient
lineage cannot bestow. Moreover, we carry with ease what has come down
to us through the centuries; what we have suffered and fought for, we
grasp, crying maybe somewhat loudly: “Hands off!” To be in Turkey, and
to learn of the heroism of her people, is to understand her moderation.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I was naturally keenly interested in the Pasha’s views on women; I have
been still more interested to hear that, since I was at Angora, he has
put his theories into practice.

I have never spoken in England or the United States without having to
answer the most absurd questions on life in a harem. This time, in
London, the old nonsense was trotted out, and my replies either invented
or distorted.

I was interviewed during our own Suffrage agitation, and expressed my
conviction that “women _must_ either have full liberty to earn their
livelihoods in any profession, _or_ be sheltered and protected as
Turkish women are sheltered and protected.” Next morning a large poster
appeared with the legend, _under my portrait_, “English writer urges
polygamy!”

The paper inserted my prompt denial, but, of course, that never was read
by thousands who had swallowed the poster. A Glasgow paper, indeed, was
considerate enough to remark that, “knowing my people were
Presbyterians, the kindest interpretation was—insanity!”

American pressmen were particularly furious with me for asserting that
polygamy does not exist in Turkey, and that no Turkish women would put
up with the European system of “establishments.” When they persisted
that “Turks had more than one wife,” I asked, “why many men, who lacked
the means or courage to ever marry, yet supposed the men of the East
could each have four?”

In my judgment, “Progress for Women” has _begun_ on far sounder lines in
Turkey than elsewhere. The occasion has come to help them, and I believe
they are ready to meet it. There is to-day so much to be done for their
country that few, surely, will hesitate to come forward and stand beside
the men in the great work. Temptations to rivalry or competition
scarcely exist.

Ten years ago, that eloquent and graceful speaker, Hamdoullah Soubhi,
was urging the women to freedom, bidding them cast off their veils and
help to govern the country. To-day it is Mustapha Kemal himself who, in
season and out of season, is calling on them to break for ever with the
harem, and learn to be helpmates to their husbands.

I have said and written, over and over again, that women should not, and
need not, compete with men. That is not the real road to freedom.
Liberty dwelleth among comrades, and shuns a rival.

“This time next year,” said Mustapha Kemal, “woman must be free. She
must uncover her face and mix with men.”

“How will the men like it?” I asked.

“It matters little what they like or dislike. Freedom must come.”

He has no more patience with tradition in men’s dress. “When summer
comes and our kalpaks are too hot, we shall wear hats with ‘brims,’ to
protect us from the sun. The time is past for ‘dress’ to reveal the
‘race’. We should dress for comfort.”

Hamid Bey and other delegates at Lausanne are of the same opinion. They
say the old conventional way of dressing “stamps the Turk in Europe as a
member of an inferior race.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Taking my courage in both hands, I ventured to mention the fear his
friends had expressed to me, of his marrying a princess.

“That will never happen,” he replied. “I have already chosen an educated
woman of my own people, with character enough to be ‘equal partner’ in
all my work. There can be no happiness in union for only _half_ one’s
character and one’s life. But I stand for democracy, and was never
attracted by rank.”

Everyone now is talking of Mustapha Kemal’s future wife. The ring was
bought for him at Lausanne by the delegates, who were as excited about
the business as any school-children. His neighbours, sweet little Mme.
Ruchène Echref and her talented husband are beside themselves with
delighted anticipation of having so charming a _châtelaine_ at
Tchan-Kaya.

Mme. Ruchène told me that the Pasha was staying with his future
father-in-law during the Moudania Conference, and that Latifée Hanoum
proved herself most helpful over all his despatches, as she speaks and
writes excellent English and French.

The wife to be could have no better sponsor than Mme. Echref! She and
her husband, like Adnan Bey and Halidé Hanoum, gave up everything to
follow the Pasha. They would not, however, allow me ever to speak of
their sacrifices, or tell the tale of their many tragic sufferings in
all parts of Turkey. Now, indeed, their dear little two-roomed cabin, so
tastefully furnished with its beautiful pictures, may well stand for
“love in a cottage.” She does a great deal of Red Crescent work among
the women who are still so active in helping the refugees of Anatolia.

One only wishes that the other social reforms, splendidly started in
Constantinople, had not been so long interrupted. But like education,
and all other real progress, they cannot survive long wars. What
criminal waste that means for mankind!

I have talked with many Turkish brides, received many confidences, and
the whole question of marriage in Turkey has always interested me
immensely.

The first Turkish bride I ever met, long years ago, had never seen her
husband before marriage, and detested him from the first. “There is
nothing the matter with him,” she admitted, “_except_ that I don’t like
him.” Ultimately she managed to escape, married a man of her own choice,
and was twenty times more unhappy.

Another bride told me that, as a great favour, she was allowed to see
her future husband, and has regretted it ever since. “The dreadful
imprudence seems to have robbed life of all its romance!”

Yet one more confession! “I peeped through the lattice-window to look at
him as he walked past. Quite an uninteresting little man, but he was ‘my
fate’ and I might have ‘been given’ something worse.” But, at her
wedding, I found a tall and handsome bridegroom. “What does this mean?”
I asked. “What has happened?” And she answered quite calmly: “I must
have looked out at the wrong man.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Tewfik Rushdi Bey declares that it is “easy divorce” in Turkey which
makes their marriages so happy _and_ lasting. I gladly pass on the
paradox to all English advocates for “marriage reform”; only bidding
them remember that Turkish husbands accept big risks at the start. They
never hesitate about trusting their mothers to “pick a winner in life’s
handicap”; and, since young Western people, one and all, prefer their
own way to their parents’, all the “wisdom of the East” may leave them
cold.

                  *       *       *       *       *

European bridegrooms must always experience a sense of being “outsiders”
at their own weddings; but at least we expect them to be there! In
Turkey, the signatures of bride and bridegroom are not affixed to the
contract in each other’s presence, and often not even on the same day.
It is scarcely necessary to add that the guests belong to the bride’s
party, and are entertained at _her_ house. To us it certainly is strange
to hear the solemn questions addressed to the bride by the Imam that
pledge her life to an “absentee” partner, whom she has never set eyes
on. I can still remember a beautiful wedding-dress of white satin
brocade, embroidered with silver stars, over which sparkled a large
diadem of diamonds. All brides, too, wear a shower of silver threads
round the neck, from which they pull out threads to give their friends
for “good luck.”

“Good luck” at a wedding naturally means a good husband, and from the
number of threads I have received, there should be at least fifty
“eligible partners” somewhere in waiting for me.

We, in our turn, wish happiness to the bride on her bridal throne, as we
pass before her in solemn procession. Last of all comes the feast, for
women only, after which the happy couple are, at last, “introduced.”

At this charming and strange ceremony I also witnessed a fine example of
true democracy as practised in the East. Among the guests in their
elaborate ball-dresses, trimmed with orange blossom, I noticed the Grand
Vizier’s wife; and then, catching sight of a very differently attired
group of women, wearing faded and worn tcharchaffs and feradjés, I
realised that the “bath-women” of the family had come uninvited to the
feast! And the door of the harem was wide open, that _all_ might enter
in to see the presents, admire the dresses, and all the other delightful
feminine intimacies of such an occasion.

As a matter of fact, I was told by Zeyneb, _any_ woman can go to a
Turkish wedding without having been invited. “_You_, in England, only
ask your intimate friends, and yet you have to employ detectives to
watch the presents.”

When my attendant, Cadem Haïr (whose colour led me to call her Miss
Chocolate) became engaged to a coffee-coloured railway official, she was
treated like one of the family by the Pasha’s household. Fatma and I
bought her trousseau, we arranged for her to be photographed, and
secured a Kara Kheuz (or Punch and Judy show) for the wedding
festivities.

So many confidences, so many romances and love-stories inside the
Imperial harem, and outside! They would fill a volume.

I have never met an “old maid” in Turkey, and I doubt whether one could
be found. I well remember the distress and anxieties of a certain matron
whose daughter was still unmarried at twenty-eight. The girl had
resolutely refused all offers, and her poor mother could only suppose
she had been bewitched. Then one day _he_ appeared, and that story had a
happy ending.

Whether the reforms Mustapha Kemal is so determined to promote will
substantially diminish the number of early marriages, one cannot, of
course, foresee. At present, fortunately, the most brilliant, practical,
and advanced Turkish women have found _their own_ sphere, and do not
enter into open competition with men. If they are tempted to follow our
Western feminists, to steal, not only men’s prestige, but their bread
and butter, domestic chaos and anarchy may spread to the East.

For the moment, one does not expect advance beyond “The Pasha’s” own
striking example. He has not only chosen his own bride, but dispensed
with the Imam—a parallel to the first Englishman who dared to marry in a
registry office!

I always said this man would scatter many _coupés d’état_, once peace
was signed; but he has not waited for the signature!

The originality of his gifts to the bride recalls the Prophet of Islam.
Mahomet gave his daughter a Koran, a prayer-carpet, and a coffee-mill;
Mustapha Kemal has given his wife-to-be General Trécoupis’ revolver and
an Arab horse! She is an excellent rider, sitting astride, with the veil
only confining her hair.

I much regret that I was never able to find an opportunity of meeting
this lady, partly because she was educated at Chislehurst, almost next
door to my own school—Rochester.

Inevitably the Pasha’s liberal attitude towards marriage has been
criticised, and described as “in direct opposition to the principles of
Islam.” He, however, will not admit the charge.

It is true that, at the very door of Europe, women have been content to
live through the centuries in a comfortable material security, that
means being cut out of all the realities of life, and all the serious
joys or sorrows of existence. It is not unnatural that isolation should
have kept them down so long.

But the harem was _not_ invented by the Turks, and has nothing in common
with the nomad existence of the Great Preacher of the Deserts. Polygamy
and the harem were first introduced when the Turks entered Byzantium as
conquerors. They served, in those troublous times, as the best means
available for the protection of women, and proved a fine school of
instruction for Georgian Circassian slaves.

It is false to say that Eastern women have blamed their religion for the
evils, so many now recognise, of seclusion. The most ignorant are quite
familiar with the great names of women who have been the glory of Islam.
Mahomet’s own daughter, the “Lady of Paradise,” spoke to large audiences
of dusky-skinned Arabs, her face unveiled. Neither did Zeyneb, the
famous and beautiful professor at the University of Bagdad, wear the
veil. Khadidja sang in public, her own beautiful songs, still known and
admired all over the East. Rhadyah, one of the first great travellers
among these lands, was also an eloquent lecturer, applauded by the most
learned men of Islam.

Therefore are not the women themselves to blame for their prolonged
isolation? or was it the régime of Abdul Hamed?

Mustapha Kemal has not only offered his wife the privileges Mahomet
accorded to his daughter, but he has swept from the path of Islam the
retrograde heresies that Byzantium grafted on to the Faith.


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XXI

 A TURKISH CABINET—THE THREE BEST-KNOWN MINISTERS—A CABINET OF YOUNG MEN


UNLIKE the European type to which we are accustomed, the Cabinet of the
Assembly is almost exclusively composed of very young men, possessed,
however, of the strong determination to serve their country.

Mustapha Kemal Pasha has great faith in youth, and his oldest minister
is probably no more than forty-two. “Youth,” he said, “makes mistakes
that can be corrected; age and experience make the mistakes of routine.”
Fethi Bey, who is the chief’s right hand, also believes in youth, and
was himself a minister at thirty-two.

[Illustration:

  RAUF BEY—PRIME MINISTER.
  EX-NAVAL OFFICER.
  He speaks perfect English and knows England better than any other
    Turk.
  p. 192
]

Here, again, the Prime Minister and his Cabinet are independent, the one
of the other. One may fall, while the other remains. I am inclined to
think, on closer examination, that the Ministers are seldom entrusted
with the initiative and responsibility which _our_ Ministers, in theory
at least, enjoy; although for them all criticism and supervision comes,
as it were, from below. They might, perhaps, be best described as Heads
of Departments, whose every action is open to all eyes in the Assembly,
submitted to the keenest scrutiny, and freely discussed. Sometimes they
seem able to keep their position after heated discussions and
interpolations, but, on the other hand, they may fall in consequence of
some detail which, with us, would pass unnoticed—such as the nomination
of an unsatisfactory functionary. They are all, certainly, very able
men; with extraordinary energy, enthusiasm, and devotion. Although not
constituted as a formal Cabinet, they meet to consider the most
important questions that will come before the Assembly. Mustapha Kemal
Pasha is entitled to preside at these meetings whenever he desires to be
present; but, as a rule, the Chair is taken by Rauf Bey, Prime Minister
without a Portfolio. They are not appointed by the President or the
Prime Minister, but _elected_ by the whole Assembly.

I have discussed this system with many of our European statesmen, who,
one and all—including Lord Curzon—do not consider that it could
permanently work well or be successfully applied to any stable,
important State.

The Turks, however, maintain that a Minister should only be elected to
watch, as it were, the special interests and concerns of his Department,
and that the _People_ themselves should be _responsible_, through their
representatives in Parliament, for _all_ legislation. The Assembly
controls both law-making and administration.

For them, of course, we of the West cannot decide, or, perhaps, judge.
We have scarcely of late years earned the right to criticise!

Rauf Bey is a man of about forty, a gentleman as we understand the word,
who has travelled among the best intellects of Europe, and had the
courage and energy to adapt many ideals thus acquired to the needs of
his own country. His brilliance and his devotion are universally
acknowledged.

Formerly a Naval officer, he distinguished himself in all the wars of
the last twenty-five years; and his command of the _Hamidieh_ in the
Balkan War, against the whole of the Greek Fleet, is not yet forgotten.
As Marine Minister in Izzet Pasha’s Cabinet he accompanied General
Townshend and Admiral Calthorpe to Mudros, and signed the Armistice with
the Allies. In the Chamber of Deputies at Constantinople he did not
hesitate to avow his allegiance to Mustapha Kemal, and was consequently
one of the first to be arrested by the English and sent to Malta.
Handsome, intelligent, a hard worker, subtle and liberal-minded, he very
soon came to the front. He was the first Vice-President of the Assembly,
and became Prime Minister last May. During the absence of Ismet Pasha at
Lausanne, he also acted as Minister of Foreign Affairs.

I heard him several times during my stay in Angora, and his fearless
speeches were not only a political event, but always caused something of
a sensation outside the capital.

He has never disguised his love for England, nor what he owes to her
education. The disillusion after Mudros and at Malta was hard to bear.
He had not only to mourn for a shattered idol, but to suffer abuse from
his fellow-countrymen for a trust of which he had been so proud.

He is, however, far too intelligent to quarrel with a whole nation for
the errors of its Government. “The future depends on England,” he said;
“we can do nothing to improve relations until peace is signed; but there
will be abundant opportunities in the future, and, if England is
willing, she can come to us then.”

“In six months,” I replied, “we shall be as great friends as ever we
were.”

“That, again, depends entirely upon you.”

I asked him whether large concessions had been made to France in return
for her political support.

“As the first to understand the Nationalist movement,” he replied, “we
owe her a great moral debt; which I have myself acknowledged and called
on the world to witness. But for concessions, the field is open to all.
We shall, naturally, accept the most advantageous offer.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Rauf Bey has strong theories about education; and has determined that it
shall be made to develop the new Ideal. He closed a school at Adalia
because the children had been taught that Smyrna is Greek and the
Eastern villayets are Armenian. “Every Turk should learn that Smyrna has
never been Greek; an alien minority, protected by foreign powers, has
been the cause of all our troubles.”

It is, obviously, of the first importance that Turkish children should
be inspired, from the beginning, with loyalty to the Fatherland by
knowing the fine story of its growth. “We need schools, and good foreign
schools,” said Rauf Bey, “but until they will work under our supervision
and control we show no favour to any offender, French, American or
Italian—we close all.”

I hear that in the American College at Broussa a Turkish woman has been
appointed to teach geography and history, a concession one hopes will
soon be generally adopted.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Rauf Bey had told me, on board the _Agamemnon_, what had been said to
Admiral Calthorpe when the Armistice was signed: “We are here to end the
terrible bloodshed of so many years. We accept these terms because we
know that the great English nation and the Allies will keep their
words.” Then, to his own officers: “Is it not true, gentlemen, England
always keeps her word?” and they all answered, “Yes.”

But we know what happened!

                  *       *       *       *       *

So much has been written about his unfortunate reception in London in
1922, that Fethi Bey, the Minister of the Interior, is well known to us.
Seeing that everyone is given a courteous hearing in Turkish Ministries,
one feels this unnecessary discourtesy the more. And Fethi Bey, like
Mustapha Kemal Pasha and Rauf Bey, was an ardent admirer of England,
cured for ever by the war of any affection for Germany.

As an Army officer, for two years military attaché in Paris, secretary
to the Committee of Union and Progress in Sofia, and Minister of the
Interior in Izzet Pasha’s Cabinet, Fethi Bey has had a varied and useful
career. During his stay in Sofia, Mustapha Kemal was his military
attaché, and they were both staff captains at Salonika. It was as a
prisoner in Malta that he learnt the fluent English he had so little
occasion to speak in London.



FETHI BEY, MINISTER OF THE INTERIOR OF NEW TURKEY.

No picture of Angora could be complete without a photo of Fethi Bey. As
this has not arrived in time, we leave his place empty, as one leaves
the place of the absent friend at the festive board—unfilled.



He is very observant and far-seeing, undemonstrative, and, despite his
charming smile, bitingly sarcastic; not, perhaps, quite so daring as
Rauf Bey, but more level-headed. In a country devastated from end to
end, and lacking in every necessity, he has shown marvellous skill as an
organiser. Very early each morning he leaves his simple villa at
Tchan-Kaya for the tiny primitive office in which he “handles” a
constant stream of callers, busy about every variety of concerns, with
an almost American speed. After a hasty lunch he goes to the Assembly,
and finally rides home, often through many inches of snow, in which no
car or carriage could make its way.

The last of the “three great men” of the Assembly, Ismet Pasha, is well
known and respected in Europe for his titanic duel with Lord Curzon.

Though now only thirty-eight, it was he who created, out of nothing, the
fine army which chased the Greeks out of Asia Minor. Victor at the two
In Eunus, it was he who won back all the enemy-occupied territory as far
as the Mediterranean. As victor also at Moudania, it was he who, with a
dignified courtesy that astonished the whole Conference, defended the
“Nationalist” interests at Lausanne.

Of the other personalities in the Cabinet one could write much. To
understand, and sum up, the strength and importance of the Assembly, one
must meet and know them all.


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XXII

    TURKISH CABINET—THE LESS-KNOWN MINISTERS OF THE SOVEREIGN STATE


IN judging the members of the Cabinet one must realise that some of them
do not speak any European languages, and know little, or nothing, of
Western ways. In some cases, for example that of Hassan Fehmi Bey, the
Minister of Finance, this is due no doubt to their humble origin. They
tell me, however, he “knows the requirements of New Turkey.”

The Minister of Education, Sefa Bey, represents Adana and is somewhat
the same type of man, reserved and timid to exaggeration.

                  *       *       *       *       *

There are many Deputies in the Assembly of wider knowledge and better
understanding outside their own country who would seem, at least to us,
more suitable men for these important Ministries. But we cannot expect
to understand all the influences which determine the election of a
Turkish Cabinet; only hoping that, as the years pass and the Assembly
becomes concerned with wider issues, it may be led by men, assuredly no
less loyal to their own nation, who yet desire rather to understand our
civilisation, to live in closer contact with Europe, than merely to turn
away from us as the object of their eternal hate.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The host who has so graciously welcomed me to his home in Angora is
Feszi Bey, Minister of Public Works. He learnt something of Europe, and
a little of the French language, when exiled to Malta. I have already
recorded evidence of his kindness and generosity, which is certainly not
confined to the horses he shelters with so much care in preference to
any thought of damage his carriage must suffer by exposure. Simple in
tastes and manner, he yet gives one the impression of great power and
activity; while the remarkable agricultural schemes inaugurated on his
vast estates have been carried out with prudence and success.

Kiazim Pasha, the Minister of National Defence, is a young man on fire
with energy. He was in command of an army and corps at Sakharia and
largely responsible for the supplies and the organisations which led the
army of Ismet Pasha to victory. Like many impulsive natures, he is
subject to frequent attacks of pessimism, from which I have striven to
rouse him by the assurance that we _will not have_ war.

The Minister of Economics, Mahmoud Essad Bey, is, of course, responsible
for agriculture, commerce, and industry. Having studied these subjects
in Switzerland, his practical activities are guided by sound theoretical
knowledge.

Ali Fouad Pasha was the distinguished general who fought against the
Greeks in September, 1921, and has succeeded M. Kemal as President of
the group formed to uphold the “Rights of Roumelia and Anatolia.” The
Assembly itself developed, or grew out of, this little band of patriots,
who are still its leading spirits, the chief inspirers of its policy. At
present, the opposition which _does_ exist has very little power or
influence; a drawback, as we know to our cost, in any Parliament; which,
however, may very well be of temporary advantage to the Assembly until
the Turks are really secure from external interference.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I was again impressed, almost startled, by the change that is in
progress in the conditions of life in Turkey, as I looked down upon the
present Cheik-ul-Islam, called in, “as a mere form,” to depose the
Khalif, with no more ceremony than one directs the dentist to extract a
tooth.

In the old days I well remember the odour of incense and sandalwood in
the sanctuary of Abdul Hamid’s Cheik-ul-Islam, as the great man sat
cross-legged under his enormous pumpkin-hat, amidst the picturesque
surroundings of historic, ancient, religious ceremony. To him it seemed
that for a cheik to dethrone a Sultan, as he foresaw must soon be the
command, would be a solemn and awful thing. I could not imagine _him_
modestly waiting for orders, as his successor is waiting to-day. How are
the mighty fallen!

                  *       *       *       *       *

Though propaganda has busied itself already, in the attempt to find
flaws in the power and popularity of Mustapha Kemal Pasha, his supremacy
remains unquestioned. So far, when his party says go, the Assembly
goeth, and when he says come, it cometh.

It is certain, nevertheless, that, as the new order settles in its
stride, the Government will be confronted with many difficulties of
which we cannot as yet foresee the precise nature. M. Kemal is at least
two centuries ahead of some of his own Ministers, four hundred years in
advance of the peasants, now suddenly, without preparation, made
citizens of a Republic—a sovereign people. I have seen the peasants in
their homes—those charming little pictures out of the sixteenth century.
Without the least knowledge of, or interest in, what _we_ have come to
call civilisation, these simple folk have been vegetating through the
centuries, free from the noise of great cities and the anxieties of
progress. Though always ready to fight and die, as we say “for King and
Country,” the symbol of their faith and inherited traditions, they had,
and still have, no idea whatever of any government system, or who makes
the laws. Naturally sober and religious—not poor, since they had always
enough bread—these children of the soil have known no ambition to
improve their quiet and happy lives.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It may be Kemal Pasha could do more with only his big Ministers and no
Assembly. On the other hand, quicker progress might prove unsettling,
and the founders of New Turkey need no advice from us. They have chosen
what seems to them the better way; we can but pray for their success. No
doubt, as France floundered through revolution, they will be driven to
face a thousand bitter disappointments and delays. In times that have
well-nigh submerged the land of the Mother of Parliaments, the Assembly
must face rocks ahead.

Now that New and Independent Turkey has her chance, she should take it.
Rome was not built in a day; and when difficulties come, as come they
must, let none scoff with a cheap “I told you so.” Only leave Turkey to
the Turks, and, like other nations, they will try and try again, until,
at last, they succeed.


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                             CHAPTER XXIII

     THE FOREIGN COLONY IN ANGORA—A GROUP OF FOREIGN PERSONALITIES


WE cannot complete our record of “Personalities” in Angora without some
mention of the foreigners in residence. Whatever has been asserted,
there are no Germans there.

Quite apart from the Turkish officers’ personal antipathy, the Germans
have no money for concessions; their educational methods would never
take root in Anatolia; they have lost the legend of military superiority
which was the only _raison d’être_ of their influence in the past.
Before the military genius of the Turks, their great generals have been
compelled to _baisser pavillon_. Even during the war Turkey saw through
German bluff, and the taste of army arrogance was amply efficient to
kill the unnatural alliance for ever. I can definitely assert, by way of
checking the prominence given to false statements of Teuton influence,
that _there are no Germans in Angora_.

On the other hand, it is true that a subtle form of propaganda is still
at work in Germany itself. There a Turk can obtain, by merely showing a
passport, a document that entitles him to all the “special” terms given
to “natives” at hotels, theatres, and shops.

I have already described the glories of the Soviet Embassy, and that
distinguished economist, Camarade Areloff.

The Azerbaijan Ambassador, M. Abiloff, represents the four states of the
Caucasian Confederation; whose rather commercial policy is not very
popular.

Sultan Ahmed Khan has been representing Afghanistan in Angora for two
years. He tells me that any communications with his Government seem
almost as difficult as with Persia, whose Ambassador has now returned to
his own country.

The personality of Colonel Mougin has done much for the important
commercial interests of his country, but he is far too wise to imagine
that France is the Power on whom M. Kemal ultimately counts to save
Constantinople from the Russians.

Mr. Imbrie, the American commercial attaché, has been entrusted with the
double duty of protecting concession-hunters from the States and
organising the “American Near East Relief Workers in Anatolia,”
administered in Angora by Mr. Compton and his charming wife, who must
have stepped out of the frame of a dainty miniature. Mr. Imbrie, by the
way, lives in a railway _salon_, and when his wife arrives we hope that
her rugs and cushions and curtains may be as pretty as Mrs. Compton’s.

It is very unfortunate that all relief work has been so wickedly
hampered by friends of Armenia in the States. Their ridiculously unjust,
anti-Turkish, propaganda must have been inspired by the American version
of _Ally Sloper’s Half-Holiday_!

Moreover, Americans never give relief which they cannot themselves
administer. Maybe the implied affront to Turkish competency is
unintentional, but Kiazim Kara Békir Pasha (who looks after five hundred
orphans without a penny from the State, and has established many
“professional” schools) has a right to resent it. His compatriots are
often tempted to exclaim, “Keep your dollars,” for American charities
are always administered with a business manner that scarcely conciliates
the recipient; and one must wonder, for example, how the Armenian priest
can provide for his flock of seventy on four hundred liras (3,000
francs) a month. They do not evangelise with much tact, and Turkey can
hardly be expected not to sense the Armenian behind the missionary.

Nevertheless, America has done a great deal for education, and one
sincerely hopes that her colleges will keep out of propaganda. Every
Turk will acknowledge the supreme value of the institutions that have
produced brilliant pupils like Halidé Edib Hanoum, and they will know
very well how much the women of Turkey can gain from them, _not_ to be
gained from their own system of education. I admire Turkish women very
much, and have enjoyed their company in their own homes, but I am none
the less ready to honour the work of their American teachers that has
already given them so splendid a start towards real progress and
complete freedom.

One must not forget the Imperial Ottoman Bank, now destined, by decree
of the Assembly, to become the Bank of Turkey. The fact will, I hope, be
freely advertised, so that all over Anatolia its origin may not be
forgotten, whilst its increased power becomes well known, and the people
may learn to regard it as what the French call a real _Maison du bon
Dieu_.

Already to-day, even in remote places like Angora, you can “inquire
within for everything” at its well-organised branches. Whether with or
without directions from headquarters, the Bank of Angora is always ready
to supplement one’s stores, and supply extra beds or special
information, and any traveller in the heart of Asia Minor will know the
value of such little courtesies! Of course, its financial backing of
Anglo-French capital forms the surest possible passport for universal
confidence.

We may hope, too, that its official position in the State may soon have
the indirect result of diminishing our foolish jealousies of French
influence. France asks, and deserves, some gratitude for her courage in
admitting the error of her ways at Sèvres, but she has no ambition to
undermine British interests.

Turkey needs capital, and American help involves interference from men
too far away for understanding. Anglo-French capital, the more the
better, means good terms in the East between us, and real friendship
towards Turkey, for “where their treasure is, there is the heart also.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XXIV

    HALIDÉ EDIB HANOUM, AUTHOR AND PATRIOT—A WOMAN DOWERED WITH THE
                ALL-CONQUERING GIFTS OF THE TRULY BRAVE


THERE can scarcely be a worse misinterpretation of the Turks to-day than
the common assumption that they do not value their women. As an example
to prove this we turn to the charming writer and patriot, Halidé Edib
Hanoum. Not only well known for her work in England and America, she is
respected and honoured throughout the length and breadth of her own
country, trusted with positions of responsibility, consulted and, above
all, listened to, by those at the helm of affairs.

As one of their brilliant journalists once said in the ante-room of the
Assembly: “We gave her a place in the army. She would have gone with the
delegates to Lausanne had her health permitted. She was elected a Member
of the Assembly, and now we realise the Constitution does not yet admit
women, we shall remove all such restrictions.”

Strong evidence of eager homage to a brilliant woman emphatically
expressed! I had met this famous lady in the old days, when we were
friends with Turkey, and am naturally anxious to renew the acquaintance,
if only to talk over the terrible happenings that have transformed her,
alas! into one of the bitterest of England’s enemies. I am sure that,
like Mustapha Kemal, she will be rejoiced to come back to us when we
both change.

Her little farmhouse, most charming of rustic homes, stands on a rough
road, at this time of year inches deep in mud, about an hour’s drive
from Angora. A clear stream runs by the way, and all around is silent
and calm, save for the very occasional noise of a passing carriage. In
summer, with the sun shining on the grazing cows, it would seem an ideal
spot for this untiring worker.

A voracious reader of the Continental Press, Halidé Hanoum has told me
of her great amusement at the report that her flight into Anatolia had
been “promoted by a desire to flee from harems and veils.” It is, of
course, in Constantinople that the women have so largely cast off the
old customs, whereas in far-away Anatolia most are still rigorously kept
in seclusion. “People in Europe simply cannot grasp what our
civilisation means,” she said; “that is what makes it so difficult for
us to come to an understanding.”

She and her husband, Dr. Adnan Bey, now Angora High Commissioner in
Constantinople, would have been imprisoned with the other Nationalists
three years ago had they not managed to escape to these mountains. Clad
in the picturesque costumes of the villagers, with clogs on their feet,
and a few possessions crowded into a bullock-wagon, they made their way
slowly into Angora, dependent for food and shelter upon the picturesque,
but uncomfortable, little inns on the way.

Since the victory of the Nationalists, she is free, of course, to seek
her equally picturesque home in the heart of Stamboul; but, “How I love
my Angora farmstead!” she cried, as her quaint peasant waiting-woman
brought in coffee and cigarettes. There was proof, at least, in the
countless books, papers and souvenirs from England around us that she
has not forgotten her education in the American College; and, whatever
her judgment of us to-day, she speaks our language without a fault.

As the eye travels over the delicately-cut features of Halidé Hanoum,
the expression of sensitiveness stands out as the greatest charm of her
beauty. Yet the quiet reserved manner cannot hide the force of her mind
and her compelling personality. Charm, intelligence, great talent and
courage, are all in her dower. What is it one admires the most? For me,
certainly, the all-conquering gift of the _truly brave_.

As my father used to say of General Gordon: “In the service of God and
humanity, he was the bravest of men; and in his sorest need or his
greatest loneliness, his courage rose all the time. To have known Gordon
is to say with certainty, ‘God is courage!’”

This fragile and thoroughly feminine little lady was first in the field
against Abdul Hamid, one of the first to understand Angora, to leave all
for the Pasha, to work without ceasing for Nationalism and the new
Turkey. She tells me that a true account of the Greek atrocities, as
_she_ saw them, will be an important feature of her memoirs, though I
shall be, personally, more eager to read the story of her own courageous
achievements.

There is only one of her judgments upon things as they are which I
regret, and believe to be mistaken. Trained in an American college, and
honoured as she is all over the States, it is but natural that she
should blame England for leading America astray on the subject of
Christian minorities. Here neither nation assuredly can plead not
guilty; but the exaggeration and the fervour of the false appeal have
come, I honestly believe, from across the Atlantic, and not to them from
us.

Halidé’s first literary achievement, for which she was decorated by the
Sultan, was to translate “The Mother in the Home,” by an American
pedagogue of the sixties; just the kind of book one would expect an
intelligent young girl to choose!

I first met Halidé Hanoum just after she had succeeded in ending her
first marriage. The union was not a happy one—she was then only
seventeen—but it brought her two fine sons, who are naturally very proud
of their mother. Education and training among American-taught students
had made it impossible for her to lead the old harem existence, but she
was able to give herself up to deep study, absorbing from her husband’s
extensive library the many original ideas she is now giving to the
world. My friends have told me, and I can well believe, how much one
loses of beauty in her exquisite style of writing from ignorance of the
language. One envies her the rare combination of a first-class Eastern
and Western culture.

During the reign of Abdul Hamid she was condemned to death, and her
“Memoirs” will, one day, reveal to us the terrible suffering of those
years. Now, however, the pendulum has swung back, and she is reaping the
reward of her courageous work for young Turkey by the high esteem and
consideration she universally receives. She was frequently consulted by
the late Talaat Pasha and the late Djémal Pasha, owing to her
exceptional knowledge of Western institutions. It was at her house, too,
I met the able and charming editor of the _Tanine_, Hussein Djahid,
afterwards with us at Lausanne. All Turkey’s great men have visited her,
and visit her still; and, without doubt, much of the destiny of her
country has come to birth, if not maturity, in her home.

Under the shadow of renewed war, this citizen in the Great Republic of
Letters could not refrain from the sad topics of Greek atrocities and
Lausanne, but soon turned our talk to more congenial thoughts.

She asked after John Masefield, and I told her that he had been a
stretcher-bearer during the war, and recently I sent him a laurel leaf
from Rome with an enclosed note: “Coming events cast their shadows
before!”

I believe in frankly telling an author how much one enjoys his work, and
have myself often appreciated the pleasures of such spontaneous
flattery. Was I not myself grateful to receive from Australian mothers
letters thanking me for “having written the truth about the Turks.”
Their sons were prisoners in Turkey.

[Illustration:

  BROUSSA.
  General view of this charming Asiatic city.
  p. 256
]

[Illustration:

  HALIDÉ HANOUM.
  THE WELL-KNOWN WRITER, PATRIOT, AND FEMINIST LEADER.
  She has ridden all over Anatolia, making official reports for the
    Turkish Government concerning Greek atrocities.
]

[Illustration:

  DR. ADNAN BEY.
  HIGH COMMISSIONER FOR CONSTANTINOPLE.
  Husband of Halidé Hanoum.
  p. 208
]

Sarojini Naidu, also a friend of Halidé Hanoum, sent me an exquisite
poem during the world’s despair. As the words went perfectly to the tune
of “Rose in the Bud,” I have sung them again and again for conquest in
sorrow, and rejoiced in their magic power. To those yearning for higher
things, to whom words of faith bring comfort amidst the cold angles of
life, the little poem may have its message:

            Nay, do not weep tho’ life be full of sadness;
            Dawn will not veil her splendour for your grief,
            Nor spring withhold that bright appointed beauty
            From lily’s blossom or Ashaka leaf.

            Nay, do not pine tho’ life be full of trouble;
            Time will not pause nor tarry on his way.
            To-day that seems so long, so strange, so bitter,
            Will soon be some forgotten yesterday.

            Nay, do not weep—new hopes—new dreams—new faces,
            The unspent joy of all the unborn years,
            Will prove your heart a traitor to its sorrow
            And make your eyes unfaithful to their tears.
                                              SAROJINI NAIDU.

After the Constitution of 1918 had been proclaimed, “Freedom for Women”
became one of the burning questions of the day. Here, Halidé Hanoum was
almost immediately the acknowledged leader, and has ever since been
urging her sisters, with noble eloquence, to take the position so long
denied them in the life of the country. With her solid backing from
Talaat and Djémal, Djavid and H. Djahid, she achieved wonders of
awakening. In those old days I had myself contributed to some of the
excellent women’s papers, which were brought out for the discussion of
educational and social problems, among which I regret to have seen no
more of that most promising sheet, the _Kadinlar Dunyassi_. At the
request of the Department of Public Instruction, Halidé Hanoum drew up a
programme of Education for Women and was herself appointed Chief
Inspector of Schools.

By the letter of the law at least, Turkish women are in a much better
position than women have yet secured among us—to the disgrace of Western
liberty. They have always administered their own property, signed all
documents relating to their own affairs, have the full privileges of a
witness in the courts, and are allowed to plead their own cases—we have
not.

They were, unfortunately, kept back socially during the retrograde
régime of the ruthless Hamid; but their fine work on the battle-fields
of the Balkan wars, side by side in the ranks with their men, and their
able organisation of the Red Crescent Society, carried them forward _a
hundred years_.

There has been a certain amount of agitation for the abolition of the
veil, but the tradition withstands reform, though it is now no more than
a sort of toque, or turban, such as we also frequently wear. However,
Halidé Hanoum—most advanced of feminists—has never herself abandoned the
veil, probably seeing in it a Nationalist, if not a religious, symbolic
significance.

I wish I could reproduce at least some of the finest passages from some
of her lectures. The noble spirit of her inspiration yet speaks, even to
those unable to follow her words. No one can marvel that she set her
hearers on fire to save “all that remained of the Turkish
Empire—Anatolia.” As she has written, “It is the love of race which
first made the Turks a mighty people. Whatever may come, rest assured
our race cannot die. It hath immortal life. Though we stand alone
against the world, our love of race will give us courage. Till we can
once more stand proudly beside the nations, we will fear no obstacle and
shrink from no self-sacrifice!”

She gave to Mustapha Kemal Pasha, before his full powers were proven to
all, the words found on the stone of an old Turkish Padishah:

“God appointed me ruler, that the name and fame of the Turkish race
might not be extinguished. I was not appointed to rule over a rich, but
over a poor, people, scantily supplied with food and clothing. For the
Turkish race I slept not at night, I rested not by day, I worked for my
people till death.”

Her work in Syria, interrupted, alas! by the war, has established her
remarkable powers of organisation; and though she denies that she was
ever actually in the Cabinet, no one can doubt that she would make a
splendid Minister of Education. The deputies themselves are so eager for
her admission to the Assembly, that we may easily soon hear that the
department has been placed in her able hands.

At Beyrout she converted the big building of the Dames de Nazareth into
a fine school, where, faithful to her Western training, she gave special
prominence to Swedish drill, and where, as in the American colleges,
Moslem and Christian sit side by side. When the English advanced in
Syria she handed over her schools, and her Armenian and Turkish orphans,
to the Americans, with the womanly entreaty that they would “care for
them and, above all, make them good boys and girls.”

The Turkey of her dreams and ambitions stands for peace and territorial
integrity, for progress in education and equal rights to Moslems and
Christians. She knows when peace comes that England, with no thoughts of
intrusion, will yet be only too glad to help. England is generous and
hospitable. Turkish students, in medicine and other faculties, have long
been with us (at Bedford College and elsewhere), conquering all
difficulties of language, climate, and social customs, taking their
degrees, etc, beside British women. Our schools, our hospitals and clubs
will always welcome all who wish to come to us: as Halidé Hanoum knew
well, before I reminded her.

Despite their limited heritage, often from mothers who cannot read or
write, Turkish women are brilliant students. I well remember trying to
interest the public in a friend of mine who, after specialising in
Gynæcology at Dublin, secured a London M.D. But the paper which could
not find space for this interesting achievement gaily printed long
columns of “Arabian Nights” nonsense about the strange ways of Turkey
which belonged, in fact, to the period of the woad-stained ancient
Britons. If the public really must have cheap romance, they would not
complain of an approximately correct date!

It is fortunate, indeed, for Turkey that their leading feminist will
work for progress on sound lines, and is far too wise to see no farther
for women than a junior partnership with men.

There are, at present, but few feminine stars in the Turkish firmament.
But all are loyally united in one common cause—to gain their freedom and
save the Fatherland. It is too soon for us to indulge in prophecy on
what their final self-organisation may achieve.

Halidé Hanoum, like so many others, is trying to regain the health she
spent so generously during the war. Attached to the army as a sergeant,
she followed the troops without a thought of danger and fatigue; and
since the recent hostilities she has ridden from town to town throughout
Anatolia, collecting and arranging her report of the Greek destruction
and atrocities. This report, controlled by experts and neutral
commissions, was sent to the Lausanne Conference. Halidé Hanoum’s
expression is sad. “How can I help loving my Anatolian home?” she said.
“It has cost us such a terrible price in lives and suffering to save our
land, we naturally would all die now rather than live in slavery again.

“I am horrified to hear,” she went on, “that anyone can still attribute
the fire in Smyrna to the Turks. Why do they not accuse them, too, of
burning Asia Minor? Will it always have to be so? Although the Greek
atrocities committed in our land are too horrible even to talk or write
about, excuses are always found for the Greeks, while anything done by
the Turks is grossly, unjustly exaggerated. If one Christian dies, the
whole Christian world is concerned, as it should be. But, on the other
hand, when a whole community of Moslems is wiped out, no one cares....
It is this spirit of injustice that exasperates Moslems. Now, however,
our recent victory gives us the right to demand equal consideration with
Europeans, no more, no less.” But, “speaking of Greek atrocities,” she
continues, “the world has simply _got to know_ what they were during
this war. Dr. Nansen, of the League of Nations, is busy lecturing on the
Greeks’ suffering, but what of the Turks’? All the terrible devastation
to which you can testify, all the number of women and children burnt and
violated; the world must have these figures to pass judgment on the
Greeks. This eternal and unjust fault-finding with the Turk not only
breaks his spirit (remember he is an Asiatic), but incites him to do
things he never otherwise would think of doing. It is a most dangerous
policy.”

With regard to the Conference, Halidé Hanoum seems to have lost her
usual optimism. “Are we right to have faith?” she asked. “We all of us
welcomed a change in the British Government, and hoped that our
interests would be impartially discussed at Lausanne, but what is
happening?”

The two actions which Halidé Hanoum considers _most_ unjust to Turkey
are the endeavours to exempt Christians from military service and the
retention of the Greek Patriarch. “After the effort we have made to be
free, we must have our country to ourselves, and if the Greeks expect
equal rights with the Moslems, they must fight for those citizen rights.
As to the Patriarch, imagine asking us to keep a man who had taken
advantage of his sacred calling to turn his flock against us.... Will
the Western Powers always interfere? All our history goes to prove that
Turks and Christians have lived together in perfect harmony. When the
Powers began to interfere, however, the Christians showed the basest
ingratitude. They invented the most wicked stories, knowing there was no
justice for us, and that whatever they said would be believed. Now the
Powers who turned the Christians against us cannot keep their promises.
The Christians want to come back to us. But we will have _no more_
interference.

“If the Conference is only to be an excuse to wear the Turks out, why
should we wait, only to fight in the end? A policy of slow death is
intolerable. We do not seek war, though we are ready to fight, because
we want to build up our country, take care of and educate our people,
and give them a little of the comfort and happiness they deserve. Rather
than have an unjust vassal-peace,” she concluded, “let us perish
altogether.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

The picture of Halidé Hanoum confronts us on all sides throughout
Anatolia. Among the heroes of the revolutions, the Turks reverence her
as their Joan of Arc. No history of the Nationalist movement can ever be
attempted or thought of without a full record of her courageous loyalty
and untiring patriotism.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I was once asked to suggest the best way of helping forward the cause of
women in Turkey. I naturally answered that I would give them England’s
_best_: her social and nursing service, but, above all, her literature.
M. Henri Taine wrote of us: “The English are a horrible race, but they
have done all there is to be done in literature.” It has always made me
ashamed to find so few English books in Turkish schools. Of course, at
present, our language is not widely known among these people; but, as
the nations of the world grow closer in thought and faith, one hopes
that they, too, may share the inspiration and moral uplifting so many
have found in our best classics.

We should surely endeavour to remove the reproach implied by the words
of Professor E. J. Browne: “French influence has played too large a
part, both in the political and literary field, in the evolution of New
Turkey, and French ideas have too long dominated Turkish reformers.”

The life of Florence Nightingale and her precepts, our science and the
writings of George Eliot, these few names and ideas may serve to
indicate the treasure we have for all men. Our literature is a gold
mine, which I, for one, long to see given its full honour and
pre-eminence in the education and development of the women of Turkey.


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XXV

 HOSPITALS—SCHOOLS—EDUCATION AND THE NATIONALIST WRITERS—THE DAYS PASS,
              BUT THERE IS STILL MUCH TO BE DONE AND SEEN


ONE’S first impression of Angora would lead one to imagine that
everything could be seen in a very short time; but the days pass, and
there is still much to be done. I have visited the Governor, and
congratulated him on the progress of the town’s development, which has
advanced steadily, even since my arrival. If there were only peace, one
could soon hope for completion.

My guide, Vely Nedjdat Bey, understands what will interest me most; and
the efforts of the Red Crescent, disclosed on our round of the
hospitals, have given me a most agreeable surprise. The sanitation
leaves much to be desired from our Western standards, but progressive
Turks have now learnt the importance of such matters, and are determined
to change their old ways, after the peace. It would be a formidable
undertaking, at the moment impossible, to carry out the drastic
alterations that are essential in these primitive buildings, with no
modern heating apparatus, and so few well-trained professional nurses.
Under such conditions they have done marvels with serum, and have
actually kept down cholera, typhus, typhoid, and small-pox with
extraordinary success. It is only unfortunate that they have adopted the
French method of typhoid-inoculation right into the breast, which,
though often effective, is certainly dangerous for women.

The military hospital at Broussa—formerly the Splendid Hotel,
overlooking a magnificent stretch of landscape—is excellently organised;
and though asked for criticism by Dr. Nazoum, head of the Army Medical
Service, I could not think of any improvement to suggest.

We spent a morning at the Lycée for Girls, which was interesting, though
I could not, of course, follow any of the classes in detail. Here,
again, one can obtain the most charming views of the town of Angora, and
I told the headmistress how I longed to carry away their wonderful front
door. She was, evidently, pleased by the sincerity of my compliment, and
had no fear lest I should follow the example of the Ambassador at
Constantinople. His wife had so greatly admired a superb Byzantine
fountain in our garden, that my host promptly gave orders for it to be
dug up and sent to the Embassy, where it still remains!

Young as she seemed, the headmistress clearly recognised the
responsibilities of her position, which were—at once so hampered and so
increased—in a state of war. At many of the Lycées in Anatolia there was
a man as headmaster, his wife being the headmistress; during the war the
men, of course, had all gone! Education, after all, can do nothing if
there is no Fatherland—no one to educate!

One class was being instructed by a hodja on the meaning of their
prayers and the general principles of the Faith; and I also heard
classes in history and geography, literature and hygiene. I was told
that, in hygiene, the subject that morning was the evils of alcohol as a
beverage. They were taught, however, in what ways alcohol _can_ be used
actually to benefit mankind. All honour to those who teach their
children, from the first, the terrible curse of drink!

The girls recited patriotic poems for my benefit which sounded very
beautiful to the foreign ear. It is, I suppose, the sequence of even and
uneven syllables which produce this musical effect. They were taught,
apparently, in all subjects to stand up and answer questions in a short
speech: surely an admirable training, likely to ensure their knowing how
to use the language in writing and speaking with far more correctness,
elegance, and effect than most of our young people ever attempt.

I peeped into the dormitories, which, like the class-rooms, seemed in
excellent order. Coffee and tea were laid out for us in the
recreation-room; and before we left the head-girl expressed their
pleasure and thanks in what was—evidently—a neat and charming little
speech.

I felt, however, that, like the headmistress of Broussa College, my
hostess no doubt regretted that there were now neither Greeks nor
Armenians at the school. There had been no more difficulty in the
class-rooms than elsewhere through life, as to maintaining perfect
harmony between Moslem and Christian. I was told that, though the latter
were generally supposed to be the cleverer, Turkish girls were, in a
way, more keen and quick to learn. They had, at any rate, a quite
friendly desire not to be beaten, and now they miss the valuable
competition.

In olden days, though women even attained to fame in politics and
literature, the general standard for education was elementary, and no
public provision for it had been made.

Primary schools were started about sixty years ago; secondary and
professional schools soon followed. There are now girls’ schools
wherever one for boys has been established; in most towns also a Lycée
for Girls, and Normal Colleges in many counties of Asia Minor. There is
a Training College at Constantinople, from which the senior students
also attend lectures at the Women’s University, which shares
laboratories and lectures—in science and medicine—with the University
for men. I suspect, sometimes, Mustapha Kemal Pasha may introduce
co-education throughout!

                  *       *       *       *       *

So much interesting literature has been produced by the Nationalist
movement, that one must hope Professor E. G. Browne may, one day, pursue
his splendid defence of Turkey by giving us extensive extracts from
these writers in English. The greatest of all our living scholars in
Turkish, Persian, and Arabic, he has devoted his whole life to the
fascinating subject; and Prince Samad Khan has told me that he lectures
in Persian without the trace of an accent.

Graciously writing a Preface to my “Englishwoman in a Turkish Harem,” he
said that as “a friend and admirer of the Turks, as well as a student of
their language and literature, it is always a satisfaction to me to find
a fresh opportunity of testifying to my belief in the virtues of this
much-maligned and ill-used race.”

Recent events, however, seem to have paralysed his enthusiasm, bringing
depression that killed his zeal for the task he now felt it would be of
no avail to pursue.

The Nationalist victory, let us hope, will encourage him to resume work
with a revived, and ever greater, enthusiasm. I had intended, indeed, to
ask him for a summary of the “Nationalist Literary Revival,” by way of a
chapter in this book. But there was not time to presume so far on the
kindness he has never refused to show.

I have, therefore, reproduced, to the best of my ability, a few notes
put together for me by that distinguished Professor, Hussein Raghib Bey,
formerly Director of the Angora Press, and now Charge d’Affaires at the
Paris Embassy. He is an exceptionally well-informed critic in the
education, literature and politics of his own country, which travel also
enables him to compare with the educational systems of Europe. He told
me that, while he admired the thoroughness of German methods, he could
not tolerate their unjust administration of corporal punishment, which,
in his judgment, vitiated the whole system. Turkish schools have all
adopted French methods; and, myself a proud pupil of the École Normale
Supérieure de Sèvres, I do not believe there is any finer instruction in
the world. But in the fullest sense of real and complete education, the
best work is being done in England. The ideal would seem to be a
combination of the two.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Hussein Raghib took me right back to the “Divans,” a collection, or
portfolio, of more or less national poems, celebrating the virtues of
God and the Prophet. Love-poetry does not begin before Fouzouli, in the
reign of Suliman the Magnificent. Any ghazals (_i.e._, love songs) that
I have heard sung here do not seem to express our conception of love.
The music sounds more tender and mournful than passionate, and the song
itself is often addressed to the Unknown, to Love in the Abstract, and
not to the individual Beloved. Again and again I caught the word “pity,”
suggesting ideas and moods we should not expect to find.

After the “Divans,” we notice the strong influence of Persian literature
in Turkey, even the introduction of Persian words—a consequence, no
doubt, of wars in Persia and Arabia. Moreover, the Koran was then a
predominating influence in all literature, as well as in science; and
Arabic was the language of religion.

It was Selim, to whom the King of Egypt handed over the Holy Relics—the
standard, the coat, and the wooden sculptured shoes—with the solemn
injunction, “They are yours—to hold; for you are qualified to be
Khalife.” From that day and for ever, any Khalife who shall desert his
guardianship of the Relics is, by that sin, self-deposed. And Great
Britain, the largest Moslem Power in the whole world, revealed her
ignorance, or her indifference, by calling Wahid-Eddin, “The Khalife,”
long after his escape to Malta!

                  *       *       *       *       *

We see, then, that in the days of Sultan Mahmoud (that is, in our
eighteenth century), the Turkish language was largely composed of Arabic
and Persian, through the influence of religion. Then, precisely as our
people in the old days could not read or speak the scholar’s Latin of
our great literature, the people of Turkey could not understand their
own writers.

It was about 1339 (in our nineteenth century) that the cultured and
intelligent Schinassi Effendi was sent to France. As other scholars and
men of letters began to study Western culture in England, in her turn,
Turkey was following European progress, towards desertion of any
scholastic influences and academic style. Windows, that looked
Westwards, were opening at last, to religion and literature alike.

Schinassi Effendi was inspired by a fine, broad-minded enthusiasm. He
secured introductions to Lamartine and other great French writers; and,
when he returned to Constantinople, immediately set to work upon a
complete revolution of style and outlook in Turkish literature. With an
ideal of most admirable and direct simplicity, he succeeded in modelling
the language upon the best French, clear and logical way of
construction.

Perhaps the most distinguished of his pupils were Namik Kemal Bey and
Adbul Hak-Hamid; but there were many who helped to extend, and
establish, his literary revolution. They did not, of course, cut away
the whole traditional influence of the Arabs and the Persians; but, with
orderly methods that were Western, produced almost a new Turkish
language (which their own people could read and appreciate) that was
perfectly adapted for the artistic and imaginative expression of modern
thought and contemporary life. The European style and intellect, in its
purely native setting, was, naturally, most apparent in their fiction.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Namik Kemal Bey was among those who died in exile for their ideals,
leaving behind him some most touching pages in honour of the English
character and constitution. When Zeyneb came to England she read some of
his work to me, just at the time when some of our Liberal statesmen, to
their eternal shame, had begun to declare their admiration for the
Russia of the Czars. We arranged open-air meetings outside Sloane Square
Station and at a big Opera House—to protest against the British M.P.’s
visit to Russia. Zeyneb’s comment was simple: “What would our great
Kemal say?” Constitutional England allied to Czarist Russia!

                  *       *       *       *       *

The acknowledged leader of the New literature was Abdul Hak-Hamid, for
some time a member of the Turkish Embassy in London. Schinassi and Kemal
stood half-way between the past and this great modern writer,
representing, also, patriotism in literature, as it dominated prose, at
the declaration of the Constitution.

At this time, of course, “patriotism” meant “the Revolution of 1908,” a
united attack on the tyranny of Abdul Hamid, who had persecuted Turks,
Greeks, and Armenians alike.

Once the Constitution had been proclaimed, however, the Armenians turned
to Russia for help to establish their own independence; the Greeks
sought to revive an “Empire” from Athens.

The Turks, who had never hesitated to appoint a Greek or an Armenian
among their Viziers and Foreign Ministers, who always sent Christian
Ambassadors to England, and who had chosen the Armenian, Gabriel Effendi
Nouradunghian, for their Minister of Foreign Affairs, were now driven to
concentrate their betrayed enthusiasm upon building up a Turkish nation
_of their own_—for themselves alone.

Their scholars, therefore, devoted themselves to scientific research;
social institutions were founded; they studied philosophy, national
economy, and sociology; they prepared their own ethnography, history,
and geography, and the reformed Turkish language.

They had, as it were, to build up a complete learning; almost a
universal knowledge; a true world-culture for Eastern peoples; that, by
its “National” inspiration, should create for Turkey a spirit and a
soul.

That great _savant_, Zia Gueuk Alp, one of the Malta victims, and
afterwards Professor of Sociology at Constantinople, has done more for
the New literature than any other one writer; as Mehmet Emin Bey, who
lives at Adalia, is their leading poet. They have others, of course, who
produced fine work; among whom Yahia Kemal would probably prove the
outstanding genius, had he the energy to maintain his highest gifts. The
pangs of a Nation’s Birth, out of Sacrifice, have found voice.

There are two women of genius in this group. To Halidé Hanoum we have
already devoted a chapter, in honour of a wise and passionate
personality that has impressed itself on the whole history of a
generation. We in England, I hope, are shortly to have a translation of
her remarkable “Nouveau Touran.”

Mufidé Hanoum (Mme. Ferid Bey) also approaches, though she has not
reached, the outstanding genius of Halidé Hanoum. She is a younger
woman, a less experienced writer, and, maybe, she lacks the inspiration
that comes from long strain and suffering.

“There are others,” concluded Hussein Raghib, “whom you _ought_ to know,
though they are not equally great.”

“But I’ve stayed too long already,” I replied, “interrupting your work.”

And busy men, even in the East, must not neglect the State for
courtesies too prolonged.

Hussein Raghib himself has published a very delightful “Story of
Nationalism,” dating from the Closing of the Turkish Parliament. “As a
matter of fact,” he writes, “the _Turc Odjagui_ was the beginning of
Nationalism.” This was a club founded by Hamdoullah Soubhi Bey as a
protest against “Union and Progress,” and to place the movement on a
national, as opposed to a party, basis. Halidé Hanoum and other
prominent women were admitted; and its three thousand members included
professional men like officers, lawyers, doctors, professors and
writers; and men of all nationalities—Greeks and Armenians, Persians and
Arabs. It was closed by the English, but has recently been re-assembled.

Mustapha Kemal Pasha contributed handsomely to the funds, and Hamdoullah
Soubhi came from Angora for the re-opening. “As our territory has become
smaller, our intellectual empire must become wider,” said Hussein
Raghib. “That is the spirit behind the club.” I had, unfortunately, to
leave for Lausanne before the opening ceremony.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I have just been to the famous Hadgi Bairam Mosque, and found its chief
charm, as I expected, in the exquisite colouring of the carpets and
antique faïences. These glowing scarlets and blues, mauves and
terra-cottas, surely compensate, in some measure, for all the grey that
overshadows life. Europe would not seem so sordid if we imported more
bright colours from the East—for our _East_ Ends! Nothing fascinates me
so much as the atmosphere of a mosque; the un-selfconsciousness and
natural reverence of the men at prayers; out of the world, in Allah’s
home.

Surely faith is the same for all men, making all men equal!

“The gods,” said my guide, “are three—Goodness, Beauty, and Truth.”

“To which I would add Courage,” was my response.

“As you please,” he answered.

He told me that “The Pasha” and the first Deputies all came to visit the
Mosque before the opening of the Grand National Assembly, joined by
everyone in Angora—even sceptics—“to lift our hands to Heaven in prayer,
confident that victory must be ours.”

We went on to the tomb of the Sainted Man, robed in shawl and turban,
after the picturesque Eastern manner. The guardian of the tomb was
seated before it on his crossed legs, reading the Koran; and around him
were many women, weeping over their prayers.... “Is it for peace, or for
their dead?” I wondered!

                  *       *       *       *       *

That afternoon I determined to try and find out all I could about the
army from some of my friends at the Assembly.

“You are very indiscreet,” said the officer, whose attention I had
managed to secure.

“I know that,” was my reply; “it is a little like asking St. Peter for
just a peep into Heaven. But you _can_ tell me something?”

“What do you wish to know? Our normal military service is for three
years. We naturally have to adopt conscription for an indefinite period
in times of war.”

“What was the meaning of the large crowd at the Town Hall to-day?”

“They were enlisting. We cannot let go now. The sovereign rights of the
people must be maintained.”

“You were beaten to the dust in the Great War,” I suggested.

“We _were_ defeated in Palestine. But most of our troops went to
Cilicia; we were victorious in the Dardanelles and the Caucasus. Few of
the Powers were forced to scatter their forces along so many frontiers.

“The English were nowhere near Mosul,” he went on, “and they never
really broke up our army; they just took possession of Constantinople
and, through the Greeks, of Smyrna. They taught us the _fait accompli_.

“It was necessary for us, of course, after the rupture with
Constantinople, to reorganise the whole army. The Pasha was forced to
call in officers to train companies, even irregulars. Ali Fuad commanded
in the North; Refet Pasha in the South. At the first battle we had two
big guns only!

[Illustration:

  AGHA AGLOU AHMED BEY.
  DIRECTOR OF THE ANGORA PRESS.
  He sent a charming message to the author of this book complimenting
    her on her courage.
  p. 224
]

“The work went on day and night: collecting and training men, making or
repairing arms and munitions, gathering metal—often from railway lines.
No one thought of rest till all was ready in numbers and construction.
We had ten thousand men in July, 1920, we are four hundred thousand
to-day! We obtained four hundred and fifty big guns, and a fleet of
aeroplanes from the Greeks; a thousand machine-guns, besides clothing,
tents, horses and mules, from the English.

“Now we have no grounds for fear, though you in England will not attempt
to realise our Mosul figures: _Turks_, 150,000; _Kurds_, 450,000;
_Arabs_, 30,000; _Nestorians_, 30,000. The _Kurds_ wish to unite with
us. The _Nestorians_ will fight, either as independent allies or under
Turkish officers.”

“Colonel Mougin says that your army is the best officered in the world,”
I said.

“Our Staff is composed of picked men with great experience and
knowledge; the officers have been chosen with great care. We are young,
energetic, well-trained, and, above all, fired with enthusiasm for the
cause.

“There is no calling more honoured than that of the army. None may marry
without the consent of his superior officer.”

“Can he marry a Christian?” I asked.

He hesitated a moment, and then replied: “It isn’t done.”

“Ah!” I smiled, “you have stolen our English _credo_.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XXVI

  LAST DAYS IN ANGORA: EXCURSIONS, CONVERSATIONS, PICNICS—HAÏDAR BEY’S
                                 PARTY


ANGORA, certainly, carries one back to the centuries before Christ;
although we now realise that life was by no means without its luxury in
those bygone days. As the houses of Pompeii were warmed by hot air
behind the walls, and the baths were not only hygienic but luxurious, it
would puzzle one to find what now remains in Angora from the comfortable
period of Augustus. There is also a prehistoric atmosphere about Smyrna,
or as it was once wittily expressed: “Since its deliverance from Greeks
and Armenians, it has the charm of Sodom and Gomorrah after the fire.”

But every day I am more at a loss to imagine where the thirty thousand
inhabitants of Angora are living to-day. I have seen some of them in
their charmingly improvised houses, made homelike by the marvellous
carpets of the East; but, as one always goes back to one’s first love, I
give up the problem, and return to talk with the “élite” at the
Assembly.

One day I found the Director of the Angora Press, Aga Aglou Ahmed Bey,
in his tasteful little ante-room, and learnt that he, too, found it hard
to forgive the recent policy of Great Britain. He repeated, also, the
note of despair I hear so often: “Whatever we do is wrong.”

“Yet,” he added, “had our movement originated in America, we should have
had the whole world at our feet. All growing nations have been allowed
to separate Church and State. We have, indeed, troubles within and
without, but they have only strengthened the spirit of Nationalism,
which the Pasha himself could not now destroy.

“Alas, poor Turkey! Abdul Hamid disposed of Turks with amazing
dexterity: he lost them, killed them, or forgot them; and who cared?
They were not Christians!

“Look what it cost us to depose the ‘Red’ Sultan, and then we had the
‘Black’ Sultan. When we got rid of him, Europe was not pleased. See how
the English are defending him; though one of your charming countrymen
told me they would not give him ‘house-room’ in your own country.”

I suggested, and Halidé Hanoum agreed, we could not refuse to find a
safe home for our vassal; although, certainly, his visit to Mecca could
not be justified by our refusal to go on paying his board in Malta.

Ahmed Bey expressed his enthusiasm for Lord Curzon’s books on the East.
As a young student, he told me, he had written glowing appreciations of
this brilliant statesman, in whom all the Moslems had once put their
trust. From Malta, he wrote to Lord Curzon: “One of your greatest
admirers, who has often expressed his eulogies in public, is now in
prison, a prisoner of peace, taken out of his bed....”

The names of Calthorpe and Milne will go down through the history of
Turkey; but not to the credit of England.

Here is the charming message sent to me by Aga Aglou Ahmed Bey, Director
of the Press of Angora:—

“I am, indeed, sorry that illness prevents my coming to tell you
personally what your visit means to us, and the feelings of gratitude
and respect that you inspire in the hearts of all the Turks by your
_courage_ and _love of the truth_....”

I was particularly glad to hear that although, like most of his
compatriots, Ahmed Bey holds that all propaganda is foreign to the
character of the Turks, he has determined to open a “Bureau of
Information” as soon as Peace is signed. I cannot doubt that this will
be a great benefit to all Islam.

“_My_ propaganda,” I told him, “would be inspired by the determination
to blazon abroad the marvellous kindness of all your race. Few people
have any idea how hospitable and generous the Turks have been.”

“Dear Mademoiselle,” he replied, “you are right. We have not the
sky-scrapers of New York; but we have big hearts. Yet we have given you
so little comfort....”

“You have given me your best, and I appreciate it. Hygiene and luxury
are not everything; though I have a pet theory of my own as to the
holding of hands between East and West in the realm of hygiene: ‘First,
I wash myself _à la West_, or, as you call it, in dirty water; then I
perfect the ceremony _à la East_, that is, in running water. On the
other hand, for a bath, I like to start with the Turkish and end with
the English. You see I am already half-Oriental.’”

Though rather exceptionally sympathetic and broad-minded, I gathered
from the Director that he, and others, were not quite so enthusiastic
about the French, as they, certainly, had been quite recently. Much was
expected of France at Lausanne, and they were disappointed in
proportion.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The _Athenaeum_ published a strange comment on my last book about
Turkey, from a writer who claimed to know the East: “When a race becomes
disciplined and energetic, the number of blonde women becomes greater!”
I should not myself call many Turkish men I met blonde; but I have a
certain impression of noticing a number of surprisingly fair men in
Angora; and, maybe, the energy of the Nationalists is thus evidenced in
the lighter colouring of their hair. If there be even a grain of truth
in the theory, it seems a pity that women of all nations should resort
to peroxide and henna, when a little hard work would have a better, and
more lasting, effect.

                  *       *       *       *       *

To-day, one feels the Grand National Assembly has achieved success, and
is permanently established. This sense of security is, no doubt, partly
derived from remembering what earlier parliaments, with scarcely less
loyal enthusiasm, attempted, and failed to achieve. I remember my first
visit to Adbul Hamid’s Parliament, and the big hopes by which we were
all then inspired. It had been no easy matter to overthrow that hideous
tyrant, and we have no reason to blame that Government for not realising
our full expectations. Other governments in other countries have failed
again and again on their road to ultimate success. On that opening day,
too, I remember seeing, with pity and respect, a pale and lonely figure,
seated silent among the general rejoicings, unnoticed and forgotten. It
was the son of the great Midhat, who had established a still earlier
parliament. All honour to the pioneers.

                  *       *       *       *       *

On another occasion Djellal Noury Bey, deputy for Gallipoli and editor
of the Constantinople _Illeri_ (or “Forwards”), gave me some further
impressions of the “Pasha” and of many interesting Anatolian problems.
However closely the leaders agree on general principles, it is always
helpful to compare as many individual points of view as one can obtain.
Djellal Noury has been to England and the States, and speaks perfect
English and French. We have mutual friends in London.

I asked whether I might go over the National Pact with him, clause by
clause; as although, or rather because, I am so keen a friend to
Nationalism, I want to be _sure_ whether there are any points in their
scheme, or their aims and attitude, that I _do_ find fault with, or
should like to criticise.

He seemed only too delighted that anyone should care so much for a full
discussion of their important work, and put everything before me as
clearly and thoroughly as I could possibly wish.

But I could find nothing unreasonable in a single clause, if the Turkish
nation is to achieve _real_ nationality.

As business men, for example, can the foreigners justly wish to maintain
exemption from taxes? As Djellal Noury explained it: “The European and
the Turk buy goods, say at five francs. The European pays no taxes and
can sell for six francs. As the Turk pays a tax, he has to charge seven
francs, and, being cut out in price, is naturally left with a large
stock in hand. These are conditions which, obviously, cannot be
maintained. Capitulations have strangled the commerce of the country and
its progress.

“It may happen that one Power takes out a Concession for the railways,
but cannot, or will not, fulfil ifs contract. We have to go without
railways. We cannot go elsewhere when a Concession has been granted.”

I complimented Djellal Noury upon the excellence of his French. “I used
to edit a French paper,” he replied, as he looked round the ante-room in
search of anyone to whom I might especially like to be introduced. For
my part, my attention had just been caught by one of the hodjas.

“These people do not think as we do,” he said, catching the direction of
my glance.

“Then you are anti-Islam?”

“Not at all; I am strongly _pro_-Islam. The broad-minded dogmas of our
religion can meet all modern requirements, moral or spiritual. But the
Koran is not properly interpreted by the hodjas. The will of the people
is our religion; service is worship!”

I remember a story of Mahomet I heard in Turkey. “The prophet was one
day walking with his disciples, and passed a group of workmen on the
river’s bank who did not stop their task, even to salute him. When his
disciples inquired whether these men should not be called to order, he
replied: ‘Work and service are the greatest homage that the faithful can
pay to their prophet.’”

I had already conceived the idea that Nationalism is a religion. One
sees the National Pact beside the bedside, as we have our prayer-books.
Colonel Tewfik has a copy, bound like a small almanac, in his waistcoat
pocket. The principles of Angora are their “Holy Gospel.” To be a
Nationalist is to stand for your country’s most vital interests.

We spoke of the Press—Turkish as well as British. The whole Turkish
Press stands for Nationalism, irrespective of any opposed local opinions
or interests. With us, the fine independence of other days has
departed—one hopes not for ever. In the hands of a few party-peers one
could, perhaps, expect nothing better. Were it not anti-Islam, one would
name the _Manchester Guardian_ as the most honest newspaper to-day.

Djellal Noury had given up so many afternoons to explaining to me the
whole policy of Nationalism, that I was grieved to hear of his having
called to see me one afternoon when a party had been arranged for me by
the colonel to join one of their shooting expeditions. I wish he could
have been persuaded to join us.

A special carriage and two of the finest horses in Angora had been
requisitioned for the occasion; and though the colonel was prevented, at
the last moment, from being with us, we made up four guns, and every man
had two rows of cartridges round his waist.

I had visions of our coming Sunday lunch; but, alas! it was bitterly
cold (in spite of rugs and shawls) on these lovely and picturesque
roads, white with frost; and when we had waited a whole afternoon for
the shooters to shoot, someone at last bagged a magpie.

Passing a flock of geese, by which the old woman of a tiny roadside farm
was standing sentinel, I asked one of the party to hand me a gun with
which to shoot one of the geese by mistake. I remembered in time,
however, that the only time I had ever aimed at a rabbit, I killed a
fox; and I was afraid that by aiming at the goose I should probably
shoot the lady.

So they toiled on for another hour with no better result, and we began
to hesitate about facing the colonel and the director of the Ottoman
Bank, where we had all been invited to Sunday lunch. But on the way back
we were lucky enough to buy a fine, plump hare from two peasant women we
passed on the road; and the colonel was boldly informed that it had
fallen to Osman Noury. “Madame Noury must cook him,” cried the colonel,
with a laugh that struck one as rather suspicious. The colonel supplied
champagne; Mme. Noury superintended the hare and the pilaw; Boghetti
brought some fruit; Oeillet was responsible for the cigarettes.

When behold, to the manifest discomfort of Osman Noury, the colonel
began asking awkward questions about the “where’s and when’s.” “Be
careful,” I said, “the colonel is going to wire to his Government about
it.” When the laughter subsided, Osman Noury blushingly explained that
it had cost him two Turkish pounds! I am sure neither the fact nor the
confession diminished our enjoyment of the merry feast.

I have been very ill to-day, on the point of slipping out of this world
altogether. Not realising the danger of close proximity to a mangal, I
carried the precious warmth into my bedroom, to feast on its exquisite
purple flames, which I just remember comparing to a sunset. Fortunately,
my faithful maid was in the room when I lost consciousness, and I was
carried out of the poisonous air.

The colonel told me afterwards that before they knew whether I should
recover, he was possessed of a horrible panic that he could never
persuade his Government I had died by accident.... Everyone will say
“the Turks poisoned you and the Frenchman let them do it.” Well, I am
still here, and the papers have lost an excellent opportunity for lying
copy. M. Louis Steeg declares: “You surely will never die!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

The Pasha has graciously lent me his car for a visit to Halidé Hanoum.
It is a pretty little machine, lined with blue velvet, which hops and
bumps and plunges along the roads like a kangaroo, swimming across the
river for more miles of twisting acrobatics. I have always admired the
carriage-drivers: before (or rather behind) M. Kemal’s chauffeur I am
dumb. But, apparently, the cars “don’t mind”!

I was imprudent enough to dismiss my conductor at the nearest point to
my host’s house, which even he could not reach, and walked on to find
the servants had all disappeared, no doubt to the Mosque, and the family
were not at home! Being in Turkey I did not hesitate to step down the
road and knock at the first door I came to, which was of plain deal,
with the usual huge lock (quite a foot long) and picturesque knocker. A
thin-faced woman appeared to welcome me, and, without thinking, I fell
back on my stock greeting: “Mustapha Kemal Pasha, _Chok Guzel_!”
Accepting my muddy boots without demur, she smilingly led me into her
little two-roomed cabin: on one side, the sleeping-room with its bed and
well-cushioned divan; on the other, her simple kitchen. When she had
tucked me up on the Divan, and given me coffee and cigarettes, I did my
best at conversation, and by friendly signs tried to convey my
gratitude. “England is a big country ... M. Kemal’s victory splendid ...
cold weather outside,” my eyes and hands said.

If she did not exactly understand what was in my mind, she was polite
enough to seem thoroughly interested. I sat on till I could hear the
servants arriving at my host’s house, and with another supply of coffee,
she smiled me farewell, without the slightest appearance of having
resented my lengthy intrusion. They are hospitable in Anatolia!

                  *       *       *       *       *

Another person I met with pleasure at the Assembly was Hamdoullah Soubhi
Bey. He is a distinguished writer and orator of about thirty-five, whose
white hair offers a striking contrast to the alert youthfulness of his
face and expression. He has spoken “cultured” French from the cradle;
as, indeed, so many women of the upper classes know that language far
better than Turkish. Zeyneb uses French in writing to Halidé Hanoum,
being, no doubt, unwilling to trust her Turkish to so brilliant a
writer.

It must have been Hamdoullah Soubhi whom I heard, about ten years ago,
plead so eloquently for the abolition of the harem. When he showed us
what polygamy so often _meant_ to the children, few of his large
audience could keep back their tears. The colonel had introduced him,
and said that he had been the Minister of Education. “Why did he give up
the post?” I asked. “Ah, _pourquoi_!” shrugged my friend, “it is a
delight to talk with him. You, who love French, will indeed enjoy the
exquisite language in which he clothes his thoughtful opinions. Such men
are an ornament to any parliament.”

Hamdoullah Soubhi does not seem to feel so leniently towards the Greeks
as M. Kemal, and is less optimistic about their return. It had been
supposed, he told me, that the marked differences between the two races
would balance each other; but it has not proved so, and, in his
judgment, they would always clash. “Our Anatolians, so long neglected
and forgotten, are as they were three thousand years ago: honourable,
firmly resisting all tempest, faithful to the traditions of their race,
loyal to their chosen leader in the hour of danger.”

I told him it should be a lesson for us in Europe, to find a map of Asia
Minor in all the humble homes; while my host, the Minister of Public
Works, always brings _his_ map on to our breakfast table, to familiarise
me with all the geography of these wide lands. We are now studying
Diarbékir and Kurdistan, not only the wonderful old towns, but the
character of their cultured inhabitants. No wonder our Lausanne
delegates have so affronted Turkey by their lofty allusions to the
“illiterate” Kurd!

“How can our younger civilisations, however advanced in science and
commerce, ever have been so self-satisfied as to suppose that we could
keep down such people for ever?”

“Our forty millions,” answered Hamdoullah Soubhi, “will not be so easily
suppressed. Remember, our language is spoken beyond the borders of
China, and our civilisation can be traced all over the world.”

When I afterwards met Hamdoullah Soubhi, in a little restaurant
adjoining the Assembly buildings, he was accompanied by a brother of the
late Djémal Pasha. I was glad of the opportunity to tell him that,
“whatever the political mistakes of their former leader, I felt that the
Turks had lost a great man.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

The proprietor of this little restaurant is also a professor. He
determined that, while cooks, and indeed all servants, were almost
impossible to obtain, the deputies should suffer no inconvenience. Now
they all either drop in at the professor’s, or ask him to send them a
snack to one of the rooms of the Assembly. The ready courtesy with which
he offered to contrive a meal _à l’anglaise_, for my special benefit,
clearly showed he is always willing to do his best.

H. Soubhi Bey’s tastes are very simple, and he detests show or bluff.
“We discard superstitions, alike in life and religion,” he said; “only
the solid foundations of truth can resist the storm. Our National Pact,
like our faith, is solid, positive, and true.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

On one occasion I met Haïdar Bey, _député_ for Vannes, the colonel’s
adviser on rugs and carpets, whom he calls “the old brigand.” He told
me, however, “the fellow was not dangerous;” and I surprised him by
declaring that I had fallen in love, at the age of eight, with Hadji
Stavros, Edmund About’s “King of the Mountains,” and, in consequence,
was perfectly at home with brigands.

HAÏDAR Bey does not carry the chaplet, which so many Orientals are
always counting, in order to check the temptation to smoke, but I
noticed he was clenching a piece of wax. “He’s training his muscles,”
laughed the colonel. “Brigands, you know, have to keep themselves very
fit!”

He seemed to me, as a matter of fact, to have suffered more, physically,
from the allied occupation than anyone else I met, except Essad Pasha,
the celebrated oculist, obviously destined for constant pain to the end
of his days.

HAÏDAR Bey had sworn he would never again speak to an Englishman on
account of our officers’ treatment of his mother. I could only assure
him, with all the earnestness at my command, that the people of England
abominated every form of personal cruelty; and that one day, when the
facts were known, we should officially apologise, as I now privately
expressed my horror and shame.

His response was characteristic of these generous people! He arranged
for me a really charming little supper-party; making graceful allusions
to England as she was before the war; and as, since my visit, he had
decided to think of her ... “I will only remember the occupation as a
hideous nightmare!”

I could sincerely say I had enjoyed every minute of the evening, from
the Circassian chicken specially prepared for me, to the Oriental music
and Abdul Hamid’s own cigarettes.

Our host himself had graciously come for us an hour before the appointed
time; a prudent gallantry, to ensure the arrival of his guests in the
crowded quarter described as “near the pump, which is perhaps near the
Mosque”! with neither street-name nor number to assist the traveller.

Aided by sticks and lanterns, we accordingly prepared to face the
dangers of the way. It was impossible to hear oneself speak in the
biting wind; and our host, with his “lantern under thy feet,” as the
Bible calls it, was fully occupied in guiding us away from big stones
and wide holes.

We were glad to reach his dimly-lighted room; over-heated, indeed, to
Western ideas; and sink into the cushioned divans covered with his
priceless rugs. The _mézé_, or meal of hors d’œuvres, was served the
moment we arrived, with dainty dishes of fruit, cheese and olives.

The choirmaster of the Christian church had been specially invited to
bring his band for our benefit. I found that, like so many of the
Christians, even the priests, he had scarcely any Armenian. Indeed, they
all wear the fez and speak of “our” country, “our” victories, and “our”
ghazi Pasha! It was in a Christian church that I once heard the
following prayer: “May the all powerful God bless our beloved nation
Turkey, and all the heroic sons and children of this nation to which we
are so proud to belong. Give grace and health to our commander, Mustapha
Kemal Pasha the ghazi, and to all the Ministers of the National
Assembly, and all those who have sacrificed their life and comfort for
our welfare.” The priest assured me that no one had “asked” him to offer
up any such prayer, which was the spontaneous expression of his own
feelings!

All Armenians consider themselves “at home” in Turkey; as the Welsh are
“at home” in England. About the same proportion know the language, the
national songs, history and literature, as we find in Wales. The priest
preaches in Turkish because he desires the congregation to understand
him; though, if he knows Armenian, part of the Mass is said in that
language, for the sake of sentiment.

In these days, of course, the races have been provoked to mutual
jealousies and suspicions. I overheard greetings that certainly
_sounded_ like the happy reunion of long-parted friends, and were,
indeed, accompanied by all the outward and visible signs of affection,
which the dignity of the European must always suppress.

“We have missed you,” cried the affectionate Turk; “life is not what it
used to be. None of us can take your place.”

And the Armenian replied at once: “It was cruel to turn us against you.
Those horrible English—that Lloyd George!”

They spoke of the happy days when the Armenians took care of Turkish
children, whose parents had gone on pilgrimage to Mecca. Now they have
come back the best of friends; and I believe, as they do, that not even
the English could ever separate them again.

One of the guests, the Italian director of the Ottoman Bank, was very
anxious that Colonel Mougin and I should not miss these signs of a
permanent reconciliation. “You see,” he said, “it is only the Turks
themselves who can protect ‘minorities.’ It is easy enough for any
Armenian to get on with them. The supposed antipathies are made in the
States.”

The Governor-General of the Ottoman Bank, M. Louis Steeg, also begged me
to do all in my power to stop this useless propaganda. The Armenians are
begging to be ‘left alone.’”

It is manifest again that Mustapha Kemal includes Christian minorities
in the “New Turkey” he has determined to save from veils, harems, and
lattices; the crumbling remains of Byzantium, anti-progressive Hodjas,
and the Byzantian Patriarch imposed on Constantinople!

Certainly these Christian musicians gave us only Turkish music and
songs: love songs, military airs, the Moslem ‘Hymn of Independence’
(known to every child in the land), Anatolian folk-songs, and, most
interesting and incomprehensible of all, the weird, piping solo that
accompanies the dancing dervishes, a combination of sacred mystery,
sentiment and melancholy.

Unfortunately, no European can expect to enter fully into Turkish music
without a good deal of study.

                  *       *       *       *       *

And yet, deeply as I feel the charm of Eastern landscapes, the glorious
sunsets or brilliant sunshine revealing white minarets against the black
cypress, I still hold dearer memories of the old talks with my Turkish
sister, beside the roseate mangal, as she revealed to me the fascinating
mysteries of the life of the sons and daughters of her land.

It is the same to-day in the more strenuous and, in some respects, more
Western atmosphere of the proud National Assembly. Even if I have done
but little to convey the admiration their splendid resistance demands,
which I so strongly feel, the effort to understand has brought me the
greatest pleasure. And whether or not I have earned, or merited, the
joy, none can take it from me.


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                             CHAPTER XXVII

       ROME, THE ETERNAL CITY—A VISIT TO THE CATHOLICS IN ANGORA


THERE is so often compensation for disappointment. Had I been able to
reach Angora through Constantinople, had I not been held up six weeks by
strikes on sea, I should have missed the chance of another visit to
Rome—above all, of having an audience with Pope Pius XI.

His Holiness could not know, for I did not myself then imagine, the
precious gift he thus entrusted to me for his children in Anatolia. He
certainly would not feel the time wasted, could I convey to him the
heartfelt joy and reverence with which they listened for my answers to
their eager questions. “What is he like, our Holy Father? Is it true
that he always prays for us?”

No one could fail, indeed, to have been impressed by the deep sincerity
with which the Pope takes man’s sorrows to heart; the great anxiety that
overwhelms him, not only for his own flock but for all humanity; and his
great desire for peace.

Towards Turkey, I believe the Christian world will follow the lead of
Great Britain; as in their attitude towards the Christian Powers, Islam
will follow the lead of Turkey. Now that Mustapha Kemal Pasha has raised
Turkey again to be the true head of Islam, should not our whole policy
in the East rest on her friendship?

As in politics, so in religion. Dare we listen to the appeal of American
Nonconformity for a “Holy War” _against_ Islam; dare we follow the
Anglican into union with the Greek Church _against_ the followers of the
Prophet? Only the Roman Church has lived in perfect harmony in Turkey?
The only Christians to praise and honour the Moslem faith!

                  *       *       *       *       *

One must come from an audience in the Vatican with sealed lips.

But when humanity is waiting for understanding and kindness; when, above
all, the East is asking: “Can we trust the West?” it is impossible to
remain altogether silent concerning the Holy Father of Rome.

Turkey has been insulted, despised, and deceived by Christendom. Despite
her utmost tolerance to every faith, she has been betrayed by those to
whom she was most indulgent. Missionaries she welcomed in Christ’s name,
as messengers of His love to all men, have used their sacred privileges
to organise enemy propaganda.

Therefore will I bear witness: there is a father’s heart on Peter’s
throne; a father anxious for all his children, suffering; and _with no
crusade to urge against Islam_, also sons of God and brothers of Christ!
For him there is one “enemy,” and only one: the “Materialism” that is
poisoning our civilisations; nourishing our pride, our jealousy, and our
hate; threatening our faith.

Is this “indiscretion”? Yet how is it possible to express one’s personal
impressions of an audience with the Sovereign Pontif! All the
literatures of the world have dedicated immortal pages to the Father of
Christendom. They have paid homage to him, if not as spiritual head, at
least as a great and picturesque personality; and, above all, a
personality backed by the traditions of ages.

[Illustration:

  BURNT QUARTER IN THE FRENCH PART OF SMYRNA NEAR THE QUAY.
  p. 48
]

Dumas, in his beautifully written interview with Pope Gregory XVI.,
describes his terror at the thought of meeting the Pope. To-day such a
sentiment is no longer possible. Awe and reverence have taken the place
of terror. Excommunication has lost all the meaning it had in the Middle
Ages. And yet, deprived as he is of all temporal power, the Pope is
expected, by virtue of the age of his sacred office, to express himself
in all moments of crisis. As spiritual head of the Christian Church, he
is to-day in a difficult position. The Greeks and Armenians, it is true,
are not for the most part his children. They belong, however, to
branches of the Christian Church; and no Pope, however much the poor
misguided peoples are responsible for their own misfortunes, can look
with indifference on what is happening to them, and may still happen.

[Illustration:

  A LUNCHEON PARTY AT THE OTTOMAN BANK, ANGORA.

  BOGHETTI.
  (Director of the Ottoman Bank.)

  OEILLET.
  (Secretary to Colonel Mougin.)

  MISS GRACE ELLISON.

  HAÏDAR BEY.
  (Deputé for Vannes.)

  COLONEL MOUGIN.
  p. 240
]

On the other hand, no Pope can forget what the Vatican owes to Turkey.
In that hospitable land, the Roman Catholic orders, expelled from
France, sought refuge. Throughout the length and breadth of the country,
Catholic missions thrive and prosper. Though they rarely, if ever, make
converts, they give care in sickness; comforts, education, and
instruction to the Turks. And who is responsible for the cultural French
language spoken in the Near East, if not the Jesuit Fathers?

This extraordinary religious tolerance on the part of the Turks has
always been incomprehensible. Disraeli’s protection of the Turk was born
of his gratitude for the religious tolerance they extended to the Jew.
Jews, who could escape massacre in Russia, found then, as they find now,
a comfortable home where they are free to practice their religion and
make money. What more can they want?

Naturally, then, seeing what the Vatican owes to Turkey, and Turkey to
the Vatican, the Pope is interested in the personality of M. Kemal
Pasha, and proved very willing to hear what a Western woman, with
opportunities in the past of studying Turkish home life, knows of this
great Nationalist hero.

Anyone who has seen the ceremonies at the Vatican must be impressed by
their great spectacular beauty. The Church of Rome has given the world
some of its finest art, literature and music. And at the Vatican itself,
wherever the eye wanders, there is beauty—beauty of architecture, beauty
of colouring. On the one side there is the gaudy costume of the Swiss
Guard, with their scarlet and gold, in striking contrast to the grey
courtyard and the black dresses or mantillas of the lady visitors; there
are the frescoes, the statues: and over all a veil of mystery and the
charm of history.

From the time one’s carriage rumbles over the stones of the great
unshaded courtyard to the side where the Pope’s apartments are situated,
one has the sensation of walking over a book of sacred history. It is
true all Rome is history. The Vatican, however, is the history of the
Catholic Church from the beginning, and as you go up the marble steps
you instinctively lower your voice, walking slowly and silently. For
have not all the greatest figures in the world’s history passed up that
staircase?

There is everywhere a delightful odour of books; but where are the
books? Uniformed diplomatists, high officials, generals, cardinals in
their scarlet splendour, priests in black and scarlet and purple,
attendants in red damask court breeches, walk noiselessly in and out.
All the chairs seem so big, and the consoles and vases so huge and so
valuable, that a portrait of the kindly face of Pope Pius X. is a
welcome change. Seeing me looking at the peaceful, saintly face, my
neighbour whispers: “C’était un vrai père.” One notices also a beautiful
bust of Pope Benedict XV. Why do the photographers never do justice to
his fine intelligent face?

Monsignor X. has come to fetch me. He, too, is keenly interested in
Angora. Now I am taken to the Throne Room; the Holy Father comes forward
to greet me. He stands whilst talking to me, with one hand resting on a
large piece of antique furniture. Beginning to speak in English, he
continues in French.

The Pope speaks most modern languages; and, as he receives every day,
keeps himself in personal touch not only with the best-known Catholics,
but with all the important personalities who come to Rome. He has
travelled extensively, is well-read in many languages, and has written
books of the highest value. As a younger man, Monsignor Ceretti—the
Paris Papal Nonce—has told us, the Pope used often to read and write the
whole night through, and he has an inexhaustible fund of most valuable
information. And what does he not know of Islam? He has studied it in
all its phases; hence his great tolerance.

Clad in a white cloth soutane, with a wide white cape over his broad
shoulders, a white cloth sash hanging in wide ends on the left side,
white buttons and a white calotte and red shoes, the Holy Father stands
out as a contrast in simplicity to his surroundings. His thick gold
chain and handsomely chiselled cross, with its large diamonds, are his
only ornaments besides the pastoral ring.

Of medium height and pale, his powerful face is young for his years, and
his large wide forehead quite unlined. His features are clear cut; his
eyes seem small, perhaps because of the thick glass of the spectacles,
which he frequently adjusts.

One is particularly struck, however, by the power of his features and
his frank expression. It is a face of much intelligence, but, above all,
one of the greatest human kindness. This can be seen more from the mouth
than the eyes.

I told the Pope why I was going to Angora, where, as the people knew me
and trusted me, I hoped, at any rate, to achieve some good. An
expression of infinite sadness passed over his face as I continued: “All
this awful bloodshed, this useless suffering. Surely these things should
never have come upon us.”

There was, indeed, little his Holiness could say. He knows how useless
it is now, to question on whose shoulders History will place the
responsibility for the diplomatic bungling in the Near East.

It should be remembered, however, that he had written to M. Kemal,
begging him to do all in his power to prevent bloodshed as the army
advanced. The Pasha’s reply was dignified, wise, and sympathetic: surely
a key to his fine personality, as all can recognise it to-day.

I said to the Pope: “Mustapha Kemal appears to me a man of great
understanding, who would be capable of a _beau geste_ towards
Christianity. His speeches are democratic, full of kindness and
consideration for his people, revealing a real desire and determination
to lead them along the road to that prosperity which should be the
heritage of a people dowered with a soil so fertile in precious
minerals.... Yet, of course, other men in other countries have made
great speeches and done nothing!”

In paying tribute to the personality of M. Kemal Pasha, so far as I
could then judge it, I said that he seemed to me a man of moderation,
who would always use his great influence to prevent bloodshed. Yet one
trembles at the thought of the moment when the army goes into
Constantinople! The slightest friction, through no fault of the great
general himself, might have appalling results. Yet I have sufficient
confidence in the Turks to know they would not willingly harm one
religious order. It could only be by accident ... yet it would be
terrible, and must not happen....

“Nothing will happen, your Holiness,” I went on, “unless the Greeks
begin it. In their tragic and hasty exodus from Thrace were they not
reminded, in terror of what might be, of their own conduct in Asia
Minor?” Yet the Pope’s face was very anxious. There was great pathos in
his voice.

In what almost tragic situations a Pope thus often finds himself! The
spiritual father of both sides; nevertheless neutral, or, if not
neutral, criticised by both ... always expected to dispense generosity
and mercy—and receiving none; no wonder the strain of the war killed
both Benedict XV. and Pius X.

In Angora I told M. Kemal Pasha of the Pope’s great desire for peace.
What was to be the Pasha’s _beau geste_ towards Christianity. I
suggested he might, as S. Sophia was a Christian Church, give it back to
the Pope, as spiritual head of Christendom.

M. Kemal Pasha replied: “Had there been only one branch of the Christian
Church, although S. Sophia has now become part of our Moslem traditions,
it might have been possible. As the Christian Church is so much divided,
it is impossible. We should only excite the Russians, the Greeks, and
the Anglicans, to come and fight each other on our soil for S. Sophia;
and the _beau geste_ you suggest for peace would lead to eternal
conflict and strife. Nevertheless, we are so anxious to do all in our
power to honour Christianity in the eyes of the world that if, by our
retaining S. Sophia as a mosque, we are really giving offence to the
Catholic Church, we would either turn it into a museum, or close it
forever. None must ever be able to say that we have intentionally
injured the Christian Church.”

I complimented the Pasha on his fine sentiments toward the Christian
religion.

“It is natural,” he replied. “I am only carrying on our traditional
tolerance to all religions. The Roman Catholics and all Christians, as
well as the Jews, have always had full religious freedom in our country.

As to the _beau geste_, what can I say? You are free to go anywhere you
like in Anatolia; talk to the Greeks, talk to the Armenians. If there is
any cause of complaint, we will see that it is removed at once. We want
the Christians to be happy in our country. We have given them full
religious liberty, and equal rights with Moslems: can we do more? I feel
sure that, in spite of all the devastation and atrocities committed by
the Greeks in our country, in a very short time they will be back
amongst us: the great friends they were before the Powers interfered.”

Rauf Bey, the Prime Minister, echoed the sentiments of the Pasha. “Tell
the Pope,” he said, “to rest assured we are doing all in our power to
make his people happy and contented. Can there be a finer _beau geste_
than this?”

As the Pasha had suggested, I went everywhere, saw and questioned
everyone. The Greek prisoners were bitter in their criticism of England,
who betrayed them and left them unaided to fight the Turkish army.
Surely the least intelligent of our military attachés would have seen
the cruelty of such a move.

Contrary to what most people suppose, there is a Christian colony left
in Angora. It is mostly Armenian, though there are still many Greeks.
The community nevertheless calls itself, and always gives as its legal
nationality, “Catholic”; a delicate way of avoiding difficult questions.

Mass is said on Sunday three times, partly in Armenian, which many of
the Armenians do not understand, and the rest in Turkish. All the
Armenians wear fezes, and prayers are said for Turkey. The little chapel
is primitive and picturesque; never, however, has one heard such strange
_Ave Marias_ or _Glorias_ or _Agnus Deis_ as those sung in their Turkish
setting.

During my Christmas visit to the head of the Armenian Church at Angora,
I asked him what message he wished me to give the Pope on his behalf. I
told him the Pope was anxious about the Christians; and he might tell
me, in confidence, if he was not happy in Turkey.

For my visit the Armenian orphans had put their home in _festere
altere_. They had made cakes and sweets to be served with coffee and
tea.

Then it was that I had the pleasure of speaking to them about the
wonderful personality of the Pope as I had seen him in Rome; and of
telling them that, above all, their Father in Christ stood for loyalty
to their State. The Turks had never hampered their loyalty to their
Church, and the Pope would never hamper the loyalty and obedience they
owed to the Sovereign State.

Then the dusky-skinned orphans, boys and girls together, were marched
before me, each taking my hand, kissing it and raising it to their
forehead.

As I said afterwards to Colonel Mougin: “I wish it were possible to
supplement the meagre funds with which Father Babadjanian is maintaining
this little colony of poor children.”

“Tell the Holy Father,” said Father Babadjanian, “that we are
_perfectly_ happy with the Turks. They are trying to send us away from
Angora for economical reasons, but we do not want to go. We have been
told by the Grand National Assembly that we shall have exactly the same
rights as the Moslems—no more, no less. What more can we expect or
desire?

“Tell His Holiness to inform Europe and America,” he concluded, “that it
is useless to try and protect _disloyal_ Christian minorities here. It
cannot be done by any Church, or any League of Nations. We know very
well, and events have proved it, that so long as we remain _loyal_ to
the Turkish Government, all will be well. All the trouble that has come
to us has arisen from the disloyalty and political intrigues of the
Orthodox Armenians and Greeks, and, above all, from outside propaganda.
So much has been said and written about an “Armenian Home”; let America
offer Armenians that national home. Let the Powers, since it is they who
are the cause of all the trouble, only recognise that they must provide
homes elsewhere for every Christian who wants to go, or else leave us
alone....

“If you only knew how we tremble before this useless propaganda, how we
pray to be delivered from our European friends. _Turkey is our home._ We
have to live with the Turks on friendly terms; and will gladly do so, if
_only_ this political propaganda can cease.”

Colonel Mougin, who accompanied me on this visit, can vouch for these
statements, which he considered so important that he communicated them
to his Government.

I have delivered the message of M. Kemal Pasha and Father Babadjanian to
the Holy Father. He will receive, also, fuller impressions of my
interesting trip through Anatolia; and fuller descriptions of this
country and those people who have made so splendid a fight for freedom
and independence.

Throughout the length and breadth of Anatolia, prayers for peace have
been echoed and re-echoed. There must be peace; but not at the expense
of the sovereign rights of the people.

It is a comfort to the Turks, nevertheless, to know that the head of the
Catholic Church stretches out the hand of friendship towards them, and
prays for their peace and prosperity through the brotherhood of Moslems
and Christians in the East.


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                             CHAPTER XXVIII

       THREE DIPLOMATS AT ROME—THE GUARDIANSHIP OF THE HOLY TOMB


IN Rome I met three diplomats; as different from each other as night
from day, as the Pope of Rome from the Khalif of Islam—a false
comparison often made in New Turkey to-day.

We have described the Pope; the sanctity of his office, the odour of
piety in which he dwells. The Pope is not of the world; he is above the
world-elected, not born. The Khalif, like an hereditary king, inherits
his position as Head of Islam; which means that he owes his position to
the hazard of fortune, not to personality or virtue.

I have met all the Khalifs from Abdul Hamid to his present descendant,
who was, when I saw him, the third in succession. He appeared to me a
kindly, cultured gentleman and a talented artist. My host at that time,
Prince Youssouff Zeddine, heir to the then Sultan, had frequently
invited me to the Palace, and always spoke highly of his younger
brother. The Prince had a touching affection for England, and, with
Djémal Pasha (then Minister of Marine) for interpreter, would gladly
listen to endless stories of olden and modern days. Passing from Alfred
and the cakes; through Drake, Gordon, and Princess Mary; to his
favourite tale of the Suffragettes chained to the grille at Westminster,
I sought to inspire this unhappy man with memories of the greatness of
the England he loved so well.

If, by any chance, I varied a phrase or omitted the slightest detail, he
would beg Djémal “to respectfully remind Mademoiselle that she is going
too fast!” It is difficult, indeed, to believe that the man who laughed
so heartily at the words “Votes for Women,” could have ended his own
existence. He dared to say to the Turkish Parliament, “On no account
must we be on the wrong side with England”; and the next day he was
dead!

Not only in Turkey, but throughout Islam, which includes India, there is
no institution so sacred as the Khalifate, yet the term is meaningless
if the Khalif loses Arabia. Next in sanctity to Mecca, in Moslem eyes,
comes Jerusalem, for all the prophets of that Holy City are sacred to
Islam, though her prophets have no honour in Judea or among Christians.
Should we not tremble when Christian Powers attempt to tamper with lands
of pilgrimage like Hedjaz, and when they trample upon the traditions of
the Khalifate?

                  *       *       *       *       *

At Rome, Osman Nyzami Pasha represented Constantinople, while
Djelaleddine Arif Bey was Minister for Angora. The former did not,
indeed, go into exile with the Nationalists; but his varied experience
as soldier, statesman, and ambassador has given him a rare knowledge of
Europe that makes him popular and useful in diplomacy. Alas, now,
however, his career ends.

Ten years ago in Constantinople he greeted me with, “Dear child, what
for did you do this dreadful thing,” as I was returning from the Persian
Mouharrem, the anniversary of the assassination of Hussein, son of the
Prophet. The Spanish Minister, who was with us, had fainted outright,
although familiar with bull-fights. His wife, Mme. M., a Swede, had more
courage than either of us; but I almost fell into the Ambassador’s arms
as I reached my hotel.

In a ring formed round a centre of blazing torches, white-robed men wail
and mourn for the holy martyr, slashing their heads with swords. They
dip their hands in the flowing blood, and sprinkle it all over their
faces. I was haunted for weeks by the ghastly spectacle, which I shall
never be able to forget, of those stained robes and faces, amidst the
wild fanatical shrieks. When, as often happens, a man thus kills himself
in the fury of exaltation, he is acclaimed a martyr, and his family are
pensioned for life.

When I asked why such awful ceremonies were permitted, I was reminded of
Turkey’s “non-interference” with every creed and all the “pieties” of
all peoples.

                  *       *       *       *       *

At Rome, I lodged in a quiet convent, which closed at 7.30. But the
Ambassador called at eight and was followed by a succession of Turkish
friends, until Mihrinour and her husband arrived at 10.30. I apologised
next morning to the Mother Superior for such unseemly interruptions of
her ordered life; explaining, in a fifteen minutes’ lecture, how anxious
a Turk would always feel for the comfort of any friend. “You are
perfectly right,” she said, “I know them well. I lived eighteen years on
the shores of the Bosphorus!”

Djelaleddine Arif Bey gave me a right royal welcome to Rome, and allowed
me to trouble him with all sorts of questions. In Constantinople he had
been what we call Dean of the Faculty of Law, and one day, on an
official visit to the Sultan, wearing a frock-coat and patent-leather
shoes, _he had just time to escape to Angora_, dressed as he was. His
knowledge of both the Cheriat and European Laws was invaluable to the
Assembly, and it is a delight to hear from his own lips that Turkey is
going to establish her _own_ Constitution, not a poor imitation of ours.

“Our justice has been paralysed by capitulations,” he said; and told me
of an Italian murderer who had found sanctuary in his Consulate, because
the Kavass would not give him up. “We have been bound and fettered all
these years, but it cannot go on.”

His admirable organisation of Justice in Angora developed from one
colleague to twenty-five assistants, for work which occupied three
hundred men in Constantinople! Yet he very soon established complete
order, though after the peace he hopes for still greater perfection.

He was interested in the personality of Cardinal Gasparri, whom I had
met for the first time. I found him a great contrast to Cardinal Merry
de Val, with whom I had long discussions about Islam ten years ago.

Shrewdest of diplomats, keenest of observers, is there one move of the
world’s political chess-board he has not penetrated? Seeing, knowing,
judging everything, could he make a mistake? In a State Church he would
be a grave danger; but the days of State Churches are almost no more. As
the Turkish minister remarked: “A Church needs more than anything a
level-headed diplomatist having no connection with politics.” The
Cardinal, then, is far too clever a man to undervalue Islam.

He has studied the greatest living authorities, in translations when he
cannot read the originals, upon all the wonderful books of the East, and
listens to men learned in the Koran. In theology, as in politics, none
could catch him napping. One may, perhaps, guess something of his
opinions by listening carefully to such questions as he may put to you;
for he tells you nothing and seems to gather up all you know almost
before you are conscious of having spoken. I _do_ remember, however,
that he asked me what the Turks proposed to do about the Holy Tomb?

To this I answered that Djelaleddini Arif Bey had said: “There could be
no decision taken about Palestine without consulting the Turks. This
astute lawyer had always bidden the Catholic authorities to remember
that Christ, according to the Koran, is of miraculous birth, is one of
Islam’s most venerated prophets. For the Moslem to blaspheme the Virgin
Mary would be a heinous offence. To hand over the guardianship of the
Holy Tomb to the Israelites is, therefore, a direct insult to Islam.”

Fethi Bey also said: “We have all our work cut out looking after our own
frontiers, yet we have always faithfully guarded the tomb of Christ, our
prophet. What can we think, if the Powers now prefer to entrust it to
the Jews who crucified Him and still deny Him?”

Even as Mecca is to the Moslem, should Calvary be to us. Shall we who
are called Christians suffer the Tomb we do not guard ourselves, to be
taken from those who have faith in Christ?


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XXIX

 EN ROUTE FOR CONSTANTINOPLE—A NIGHT AT BILIDJIK UNDER THE FROST-LADEN
                                 SKIES


ONE does not expect comfort in an unheated railway carriage, with snow a
foot and a half deep, and the temperature 15° below zero. As we left
Angora we also noticed that one of the carriage windows was missing, and
a courteous official kept back the train to insert one from another
compartment! We were grateful, indeed, for even then the cold was hard
to bear.

The little engine is now ploughing its way _downhill_ but still slowly,
since halts are needed to renew its strength for the double task of
“traction” and sweeping away the snow.

We are well supplied with food for a five-days’ journey, so that over a
cheerful meal we can almost forget to feel frozen, and soon find we have
covered the thirty-five hours to Eski-Chéir.

From Eski-Chéir to Kada-Keuy, where the lines have been cut, is a short
distance; but, mercifully, it is not so cold as in the mountains. From
there we travel in a yaili (native carriage) which has evidently seen
better days and, let us hope, better springs. They have been removed
altogether from one side, and we should have been easier without the
worn remnants on the other! As there are no seats, one has to be propped
up by any available rugs or cushions, unless you prefer lying down at
full length. But the little cart is lined with red-cotton brocade, while
green curtains, looking-glasses, and tassels complete the “decoration”!
It must be delightful to saunter along on a summer’s day; and draw your
curtains for a night in the open; but even the straw, the mattress, and
many rugs cannot transform the yaili to a _train de luxe_ in winter.

To catch “the express” at Bilidjik we have to drive in two and a half
hours a distance that requires a much longer time. So, with good horses
and a fearless driver, we rattle away, up hill and down, over bumps and
stones. The luggage is thrown out, my thermos is shaken to pieces, and
we are flung violently against the roof! Bruised and bleeding, we hold
on in grim silence; since time, too, flies.

[Illustration:

  The Yaili, or Native Carriage, with Drawn Curtains.
]

Even at this pace we cannot escape the oppression of desolation. On
every side lie smashed engines, burnt railway carriages, and villages in
cinders. As dusk falls, only a fatalist, in a country of fatalists,
could venture the rush down sharp descents cut through a precipice of
800 feet!

Fate, indeed, preserved us, only to prove its irony; for when we reached
the once prosperous Bilidjik, still beautiful in its ruins, we hear that
a landslip on the line has made traffic impossible for some days to
come. In Anatolia, one must be ready to do as the Anatolians; and we are
faced with the prospect of a night under the frost-laden skies. There is
not even a chair to be found, though “kindness” quickly contrives a seat
for me from a pile of logs. Here I can rest awhile; and by brisk walks
at short intervals probably keep up my circulation until the welcome
dawn....

Someone, however, suggested that we should beg for shelter in one of the
luggage-vans already crowded with men and women—naturally, in separate
compartments. One thought of the poor villagers we had seen huddled
together in their holes on the mountains; and realised that even the
floor of a luggage-van may be a “luxury.”

Here turban-headed men are sitting on their prayer-carpets, some sound
asleep in that uncomfortable attitude, others eating, and others
praying, but none uttering a word of complaint.

Looking around for a seat amidst the wilderness of food and bed-clothes,
I suddenly hear a few cheery words in English, to my amazement and
delight. Here is one of the American Relief Workers, prepared and
thankful to spend the night among the strange crowd. With the
resourcefulness of his nation, he is provided with a large hat-box that
will serve as seat or table, and contains both food and bed-clothes.
From his “seat,” therefore, he quickly extracts some sandwiches of most
delicious pea-nut butter, making a cup of tea for me on his “table.”

All eyes are drawn to the neat dispatch of these preparations and the
marvellous ingenuity of his packing. From that veritable box of Pandora
came solid alcohol, tins, kettles, goblets and card-board plates. The
food itself was kept in clean, little linen bags.

It was, indeed, a strange lesson in efficiency and practical hygiene,
delivered in the wilderness! His unpractical, Eastern neighbour is
meanwhile struggling with a bit of old newspaper, from which a most
unappetising collection of honey and eggs and nuts and bread are
tumbling in dirty confusion, as the broken eggs and printer’s ink
trickle in a discoloured stream on the floor.

“If only you would send out a good company of missionaries in hygiene,”
I cried out, in my excitement, “the other gospels would follow as a
matter of course. The world will be a far better place when America
comes to the East and preaches the need for exterminating the house-fly
and other insects with the fine zeal she is now devoting to the
extermination of the Turk.”

My new friend—I had almost said compatriot—laughs good-naturedly at my
enthusiasm; and in a few moments, despite my sympathy with Anatolia, I
am again compelled to recognise that I am, after all, a woman of the
West.

When someone brought in a blazing mangal and carefully closed every door
of the crowded luggage-van, the American soon found a polite excuse to
jump out. Five minutes later I, too, ventured to open the door and call
out to ask him for a helping hand. Both of us knew it was far better for
us to die of cold in the fresh air than to choke in those thick charcoal
fumes. I will hold a light while he digs out a hole, for sleep on the
bosom of Mother Earth.

But now two charming Turkish boys, the sons of Moueddine Pasha, in our
party, are telling me that they are terribly distressed at my
discomfort. It is in vain for me to assure them that no one could blame
_them_. Somehow, they find the _Commandant de la place_; and, at his
direction, gallantly tramp back for two and a half hours, to bring me a
mattress from the Governor’s house which, placed on three standard
oil-boxes, forms my bed. Meanwhile, the Commandant, who is familiar with
Europe and speaks fluent German, earnestly begs me to excuse this
terrible reception. “It is the work of Lloyd George,” he adds, as for
every disaster in Anatolia the same cause is proclaimed. Ask a peasant
who killed his sons, and he will reply without hesitation, “Lloyd
George.” Our late Premier has now become super-bogeyman of the Near East
for Moslems and Christians alike.

All through the night strains break on my ears of the Anatolian
folk-songs; the expression of that strangely resigned happiness of a
long-suffering people which we of the West must half-envy and, at the
same time, half-despise. Average human nature is only too apt to neglect
those who never complain; and if others appeal for them, to say—as even
America has said—“It is too big a problem for us to tackle.”

With so much goodwill around me, the night passed far more quickly than
even my natural optimism could have foretold. And before stepping into
the yaili that will carry us on to Broussa, I try to express to the
kindly peasants a little of the gratitude and admiration in my heart.

“We do not lack anything,” they assure me. “All we want is to save our
Fatherland. It would be wrong of us to use up the wood and material for
building houses that may be required in the war.”

Then, for farewell, the old Bible-greeting of “God be with you.”... “And
bring us peace,” is all I can find voice to reply.


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XXX

 FROM BILIDJIK TO BROUSSA BY YAILI—AFTER THE DAY’S ROUGHENING EXPERIENCES
                ONE CAN SLEEP WHATEVER THE ACCOMMODATION.


OUR adieux to Bilidjik did not delay us long. As there were no trains to
Constantinople, we had to take the road to Broussa and Moudania, whence
the boat runs to Constantinople. I now joined the American in one
carriage, the two Turkish boys following in a second. Although _yaili_
means “a carriage with springs,” neither of ours justified their name,
for they had none. An American, however, is nothing if not resourceful,
and my companion performed wonders with straw, rugs, and boxes.

It was about nine o’clock when we started along the muddy roadway, in
charge of one of the most happy-go-lucky coachmen it has ever been my
good fortune to employ. He had ten animals of his own before the war,
and, now the Greeks have taken them all, he is making a fresh start with
the best he can hire from others. He _said_ that these were steady and
sound, but I could not believe we should have known the difference, over
these ploughed fields on the edge of the mountains, so caked with mud
that our carriages frequently stuck fast. It was a wearisome business
enough, the constant alighting to be dug out for fresh starts; but I was
altogether beyond sharing the American’s alarm lest we should sink for
ever in a bog! I was far more concerned about the difficulty of getting
really comfortable, among my disordered rugs and shawls.

As our coachman provides us with many evidences of Greek barbarity from
the ruins of every village we pass, my companion’s indignation shows
rapid signs of approach to fever heat. “We’ve not played ‘straight,’” he
cried, “I am not pro-Greek nor pro-Turk, and, at the moment, I haven’t
much use for Christians; but I don’t see myself keeping quiet about all
this. You and I have to get quick and publish a little truth for a
change.”

I told him that I had been trying in vain to get something done, or at
least known, about Angora; but that if ever an article of mine included
a word about Greek atrocities, the editorial scissors promptly got busy,
and the truth remained untold.

Obviously the American belonged to that fine type, which abounds in
young countries, who put all their dollars into the acquisition of
knowledge, and who delight in using the knowledge they have acquired,
backed by their own wealth, in the service of mankind. His keen
inquiries about _my_ impressions of the sad people he had come so far to
understand, were proof enough that no kind of vanity, or pursuit of
self-glorification, lay behind his insatiable curiosity.

I was much interested to find that he agreed with me in having noticed
how strongly the “personal” element enters into all one’s relations with
any Turk. If they do not like one, you might as well stay in England. If
your personality attracts them, it will make no difference where you
happen to have been born.

“They are called ignorant and fanatical; but I find that even the most
illiterate understand enough of our civilisation to make any honest
Englishwoman heartily ashamed of our ignorance and insularity.”

“Remember,” he said, “how little we Americans really know of you, or you
of us.”

“I _do_ remember how I shocked one of your compatriots by confessing
that I had the most shaky idea of the occasion for your ‘Thanksgiving,’
but he afterwards admitted he had imagined till quite recently, that
‘Boxing Day’ was the annual event of our national sport!”

There was little to break the monotony of our lonely journey except a
large number of caravans, and, every now and again, one of those tiny
little donkeys, used to lead a troop of from nine to fifteen camels!

“Now you see,” said the ‘man from the States,’ “why we sometimes speak
of a ‘conceited ass!’”

“Only,” I answered, “this little fellow has something to be conceited
about. He has the right to say ‘look at me,’ as he trots along with the
double row of turquoise beads round his neck, leading these great big
chaps behind him. When he chooses to push ahead, they must hurry after
him; and when he condescends to turn round and ‘look over’ them, for all
the world as an officer might ‘eye’ his men, you could not discover a
more striking example of personality in the East. I declare I have
fallen in love with that charming ass!”

[Illustration:

  “He has the right to say, ‘Look at me.’”
]

“Very well,” he replied with a laugh, “the next time anyone calls me an
‘ass,’ I shall be proud to accept the compliment.”

“But, seriously,” I replied, “asses are seldom as black as they’re
painted. After all, to be stubborn is one form of personality. I
remember staying in a French chateau during the war, where one donkey
had taken over the duties and responsibilities of the eighteen horses,
which had been requisitioned by the State. On Sundays, tied up to a tree
in the churchyard, while the family was inside the church, he always
waited to hear the Sanctus bell, and then brayed his loudest. He must
take part in the Mass!”

One rarely sees any driver astride his camel. He may be “considering his
beast,” but, on the other hand, he may not. For of every variety of
sickness (of the sea, the home, or love itself) is not camel-sickness
the worst?

My companion agreed that he had not found the Turks either stubborn or
unreasonable. “Everyone I met in Anatolia made an honest attempt to
understand my point of view, even when I endeavoured to explain or at
least to excuse, English policy.

“Turks are ‘stubborn,’ if you insist on the phrase, about the future of
their country; but they have given a great deal of thought to the
subject, and they speak from experience that has been bought at a big
price. I have never encountered that uncomfortable type of mind we know
so well among ourselves, and in a more aggressive, if less dangerous,
form in the States, which nothing will move from its ‘pet’ hatred or
chosen love, _in spite of_ great culture and general understanding.

“I will not quote President Wilson, because we have an even better
illustration in the late Lord Bryce. Few men could claim wider culture,
few have been so universally acknowledged a great statesman, yet the
Turk to him was no better than a red rag to a bull! And when he said
that these people were ‘unspeakable,’ the world believed it.

“I once attended a debate on whether ‘the Turks should, or should not,
be forced to abandon Constantinople.’ A judge from Constantinople had
been called to open the discussion, who said, among other things, that
‘this eternal reference to India as an excuse for backing Turkey was
mere nonsense; _because Lord Bryce had said that India was indifferent
to Turkey’s fate_!’

“Seyed Hossain, a member of the Khaliphat Delegation, then rose to
contradict this assertion. He said that he had come all the way from
India with the Khaliphat Delegation, for the express purpose of
protesting against the attitude of the Allies towards _his_ Khaliph (the
Sultan of Turkey).”

“‘My dear Sir,’ answered the judge, ‘I have absolutely full confidence
in any statement made by Lord Bryce.’

“The poor Indian was staggered for a moment, but soon found courage to
reply: ‘Has a man like Lord Bryce the _right_ to defy commonsense,
statistics, and accurate, official information. My presence here is a
clear proof that my statement is correct.’

“‘Your presence means nothing to me,’ was the ‘polite’ retort, which
concluded the debate!

“There is, of course, a very stupid kind of loyalty in such an attitude,
but it tempts one to almost despair of ever hoping to fight against its
criminal injustice to Turkey.

“It is a heavy responsibility for great men if they give rein to an
obstinate and unreasonable prejudice. It is so hard to resist those we
respect.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

“What do you really think about the Americans in Turkey? I am so anxious
to do my utmost for these poor people, asked my friend.”

“I, who love them, will honestly say I fear that the influence of your
people is very dangerous. For _one_ who does good, as I am sure you have
done, there are fifty who only make mischief, even undoing much of what
you have achieved.”

“The supreme merit of the Nationalist movement comes from the fact that
Turks are beginning to be _themselves_. All must be well in the end if
they are content to ‘swallow’ Europe in small doses. Already we have
with us that dangerous anomaly the European Turk. The big capitals kill
his sincerity and capture his affections by their vices. His mysterious
dark eyes (an everyday commonplace in his own country) too often prove
‘false lights’ leading him on to the rocks. It is a test of character to
ask the European Turk if he is not ‘longing to get back to Turkey?’ When
I put the question to Hussein Raghib, he said ‘if I must stay here for
my country, I will stay, but I am never happy for long so far away from
Angora and all it means to me.’ Certainly a healthy view!

“It is surely better to let the Turks work out their own salvation, only
helping when they ask for help; and even then we should be careful to
give them what they desire and not what _we_ may think best for them. It
is really cruel to tamper with other people’s ideas, particularly their
religion, and it does no good in Turkey. The gospel of Islam has made
them the fine race they will always remain at heart.

“You can do good in practical, material affairs and for the diminution
of physical suffering. I wish every American would preach the gospel of
the Rockefeller Institute all over the world: the creed of the open
window, a crusade against vermin and microbes. That would bring us a
‘new’ world.

“I would like to see a closer union between the Red Cross and the Red
Crescent. The Turks have not your organising ability; but they have many
sound ideas already operating in their hospitals.

“We must be quite sure that our civilisation is perfect before we force
it on others. It is ‘mine,’ and I owe much to it; but I, for one, can
see much to criticise.”

“I, too, believe we have no right to offer more than material
assistance, and such an example as our own efforts, towards the best we
know, may afford.”

“It is a great deal, if given in the right spirit. My own idea of
‘service’ is to try and understand the East, to prevent such terrible
blunders as our ignorance of them have brought about, which may even
involve us in the horrors of another war.

“Why should we ask Orientals to accept our civilisation and ‘look at
life’ through our eyes. It is no wiser or juster than asking a woman to
see nothing except through a man’s eyes; and to work in his way. She
cannot do that, and has suffered in the attempt. Your work is even a
great peril. It is only too probable that you will be ‘starting’ them on
the wrong road, and you must soon leave them to find their own way.

“If I am wrong, at least I speak in all sincerity; and I have studied
the question for many years. As I see it, our Western civilisations have
much to learn from the East in pity and humanity.”

“Osman Nyzami Pasha said to me once, in Rome, ‘you must not judge a
nation by its Government but by the gods it creates for itself in its
own image.’ The ancient Greeks peopled Olympus with gods of revolting
immorality; but you in Oxford forget that chapter of the story. The God
of the North——”

He paused, and I took up the challenge.

“The cold, harsh, and unforgiving Deity; the bogeyman of my childhood,
always ready with some awful punishment for the least shortcoming.

“Why are our Puritan countries, whose God is love, so unjust to women,
keeping them down under cruel and illogical laws. It is idle for men to
say that no laws can diminish the deep respect they accord to women,
which, in fact, is seldom shown to any of us except their wives,
certainly not to woman as a woman.

“I certainly hold no brief for ‘irregularity,’ but there is something
wrong with a conception of God which has produced the immeasurable gulf
between the married and the unmarried mother. Humanity is not of our
making; the ‘imperfect’ man has no right to demand ‘perfection’ from all
women. Has he not made and tolerated _War_ that has overthrown every
standard of morality, changed all our ‘values,’ shattered every ideal,
leaving religion nowhere, and two million women without a mate?

“Such is the civilisation that dares to point a finger of scorn at the
unmarried mother; and, by dismissing her, characterless and unpensioned,
from every respectable avenue of support, dares to brand a child as
unwanted, and push the innocent young life into secret and shameful
surroundings. Those who should help, with all the power of their
sheltered purity, prefer to keep themselves ‘too respectable for any
knowledge of these uncomfortable problems,’ since they are good and
faithful servants of One who said, ‘Let him who is without sin amongst
you cast the first stone!’

“All maternity is sacred to the Turk, and every child enjoys full legal
status. The super-cowardice of declaring a child as born of ‘parents
unknown’ (as you may in France) could never be allowed. If marriage be
not the high sacrament it is, theoretically, regarded in Europe, the
life of _every babe_ whom God sends us is held to be a sacred charge. Do
our missionaries in Turkey really preach the Gospel of Christ?”

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Do you approve, or admire, the resignation of the East, the Turk’s
ideal of being content with so little?” asked the energetic American.

“We are _both_ wrong. Their resignation too often leaves life stagnant,
our race for dollars drenches the world in blood.

“Is it not horrible for us to have to confess that all this appalling
Battle of the Cross against the Crescent, sprang out of greed for oil.

“One cannot realise what the world would be like were all nations
governed by your and my ideals. Would there ever have been a British
Empire? We can scarcely justify, on grounds of high morality, the
conquest of America; and, surely, the States could by such ruling have,
indeed, become ‘God’s own country.’”

                  *       *       *       *       *

When the road became rather more European, our Turkish boy friends
sought to relieve the monotony by a furious race between the two yailis,
and we were tossed about beyond all possibility of further talk. When,
however, the boys had won the first heat, I begged to be excused from
trying to secure our revenge, as the carriages did not seem solid enough
for racing.

Then behold, at the word, one of our wheels flew off! And, though we
were mercifully taking a saunter “between rounds” at the moment, we had
to follow our belongings into the mud and do what we could to help the
wheelwright.

The American, I found, had been teaching himself the language, and
claims to have read _Nasreddin Hodja_ in the original. Now he hastened
to improve the occasion by the most voluble congratulations to our
unmoved drivers. “This wheel evidently knew how to choose the
‘psychological moment’ for its detachment,” he exclaimed. “On the edge
of a mountain, we should all have been pitched into the depths; crossing
a river, our lady passenger, who cannot swim, would have been drowned;
during the race, we could not have avoided a fatal collision. If it had
to happen, it could not have happened more wisely!”

The job is finished at last; maybe hastened by such lively chatter; but
I confess we did not feel really secure. In fact, the prudent suggestion
that one of us should hold the reins while our driver “kept an eye on”
the wheel was soon justified by a second flying away of that “offending
member.” It was this time discovered that something must be found to
enlarge the circumference of the axle to keep it fixed, and I
immediately offered my pocket-handkerchief. Our driver, however, would
not hear of “depriving me” and so I begged the American “not to disturb
him, but to see how he would contrive.” Though obviously puzzled for a
few minutes, he soon justified my confidence by cutting off a good
handful of hair from the horse’s mane, and thus “fixing” the wheel once
more.

“That’s all very ingenious,” laughed my companion, “but ‘hair’ won’t
‘wear.’”

“Then he’ll find something just as original,” was my triumphant retort.

Nevertheless it was growing dark, and there were rivers ahead that would
seem to demand rather better security than we possessed. My anxieties,
however, were soon scattered to the four winds by the most astonishing
tirade of unjust contempt for all things English, in which my companion
now proceeded to indulge. My anger lasted just long enough for us to
cross the river; for once we were over, the good man explained that he’d
done it to make me furious, the only way he knew to cure a brave woman’s
fit of nerves.

                  *       *       *       *       *

At last the welcome smoke, rising from peat cottage-fires, brings the
comforting knowledge that we have almost reached Enichéir; and we are
soon happily searching for some sort of a resting place that may call
itself “an inn.” We are offered the choice of four beds in a room with
five others already occupied, or an empty, partially wrecked, sleeping
apartment containing two!—one for me, one for the boys, and the American
on the floor.

We naturally accept the latter, and immediately get busy about some
cooking and a wash. After the day’s roughening experiences one can sleep
whatever the details of the accommodation!

At about 9.30 that evening we are awakened by the police, who, however,
explain that I am only “wanted” by the Commandant, who has called to
wish me _bon voyage_, and inquire if there is anything he can do for my
comfort or to speed me on the way.

“It is not now the Pasha and four wives,” said I, as our visitor soon
discreetly left us, “but the Englishwoman and three husbands!”

Next morning after a pleasant hour of mutual assistance in heating the
water and holding a looking-glass for each other, with, as I told them,
“the most courtly assistants any woman could desire,” the American goes
out in order to fix that wheel to his own satisfaction and, by
inference, to mine. We have two more days in the yailis and cannot
afford to lose time.

Our next halting-place is still more primitive, with its four houses,
the tiny inn, a large stable, and a poultry yard. Here, however, the
Mayor is ready to join us, in his long Persian shawl, robe, and turban,
his documents wrapped in a case of flannel. Like the driver, I notice
that, as he steps into his seat, he is careful to take off his muddy
shoes. Indeed, the godly cleanliness of Islam, if it does not quite
follow our Western traditions, is a very real and honest ideal. The
body, as the cheik had assured me, is clean if the clothes be dirty; and
I am beginning to think that those “little visitors” in the hotel beds
must really be “suffered in kindness.”

I well remember the shock with which one of my friends met the
suggestion that he might drown some of the kittens who were arriving,
just then, with most alarming rapidity. He said, “the Koran would not
permit it!”

Another weary day, amidst so much mud and so many ruins, naturally stirs
my companion to thoughts of what might be done by a few dollars.

“I do not mind your having any concessions,” I said, “if you will keep
your hands off the architecture. I was hearing the other day about a
scheme for building a railway in co-operation with the Turks: one rail
to be laid by them and the other by the Americans! I should feel far
more safe in a yaili with _one_ wheel!

It is a delightful pastime to work out big schemes for smashing up
Europe, Asia, and America; in order to rebuild the world tastefully and
according to hygiene, like a couple of happy children with their bricks;
but we have at last reached the conclusion of the whole matter. East is
East and West is West. If they attempt to “take turns” building
railways, the trains will certainly “go off the line.”

I have never been able to understand why anyone should be so afraid of
the Cheriat Laws. With all respect for my present company, I say, what I
afterwards repeated to Sir William Tyrell, “I would rather trust myself
in a Turkish court than appeal to American justice.” In the first case,
you may find yourself in the hands of a kind-hearted judge; the second
adventure depends entirely on cash. English justice has no equal; but
our laws for women are themselves unjust, and the best workman can do
little with poor material. Trials, like marriages in foreign countries,
should be illegal unless the Consul, or someone equally expert, is
present to “watch for” his fellow-countryman. What crimes have not we
committed in the name of Justice through ignorance of foreign customs!

“Those who face the choice of trusting themselves to the Cheriat or
keeping away from Turkey, may find that these laws are not so terrible
after all,” answered the American.

Zeyneb once said that the great merit of Moslem “Commandments” was the
absence of mystery. “The i’s are all carefully dotted. We are not told,
for instance, that we should give to the poor; we _are_ told the precise
percentage of income that must be allotted to charity. Though our laws
come from the great Prophet of Allah they are not ecclesiastical.”

In Moslem countries the Head of the State must be elected by the people;
he has full executive and legislative power, but he is also personally
responsible to the nation. We cannot deny that Mustapha Kemal Pasha has
rigidly adhered to this theory of government in his daily practice.

This is the true Democracy. Born without any advantages of caste or
family, Fethi Bey laughs at all my allusions to “old ancestors.” The
attitude does seem peculiar to Western minds, and may often lead to
confusion between us, but it is not without charm.

“How do these very intelligent, modern Turks attempt to reconcile their
zeal for liberal reform with their firm loyalty to Islam? How do they
account for the decline in prestige and power that none can deny has
been their fate?”

“My friends at the Assembly attribute the temporary fall of Turkey to
the strong, non-progressive, influence of the hodjas, who have converted
themselves into a powerful priestly class, as forbidden by the Prophet.
Others attribute it to ignorance of economics; others to Western
remoulding of Islam, and foreign oppression; others still, to a
perpetual state of war.”

“What is the Pasha’s personal opinion?”

“No man,” he says, “can live without complete liberty and full freedom;
nor can any nation. So long as the interests of my own country permit
it, I will be the friend of all nations and all humanity; but when any
nation begins to tamper with our freedom and our independence, as
Germany did in the war, then we can only resist and fight to the bitter
end. I sought to discover my people’s will, and I found they were ready
for any sacrifice to defend their country. I had faith in the sons of
Turkey, and my faith has justified itself to the utmost.”

“There has, indeed, been no finer movement among the ‘despised and
rejected’ since the world began.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Here comes my friend the sun,” I exclaimed; “a snow-capped Olympus, the
cypress beneath the azure! Why is our driver using his whip with such
unusual success, just when we want to linger and admire—— Do you know,
my friend, should I paint this soil, in all its varied tones from ruby
to terra-cotta, all men would cry out, ‘that woman always sees her
Turkey _en coleur de rose_!’”

“I will bear witness,” laughed my friend.

“But, seriously,” I went on, “does it not mean iron; rich veins of iron
that it would _pay_ someone to produce?”

In this district of lonely marshland, one can at least rejoice in the
cold for one reason. It has driven away the flies and mosquitoes.

“Why does not your country find the capital and send over our unemployed
ex-service men to help the Turks drain and cultivate these waste lands?”

When I afterwards spoke of the possibility at Lausanne, I was told that
“something might be done!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Now we have reached Broussa, and our young Turks hurry forward to
announce our arrival to the Governor.

It is more trying than ever to lack springs, as we jolt over the loose
cobbles of these primitive and neglected town streets. But I could
cheerfully have put up with far greater discomfort to reach, at last,
the “luxurious” (in comparison) Hotel Brotte, its glowing fire, can
after can of water, clean sheets, and the blessed chance of changing
one’s clothes and really _brushing_ one’s hair.

[Illustration:

  THE TOMB OF THE SULTAN OSMAN AT BROUSSA.
  p. 272
]

This is _not_ the Savoy, but, surely, something better!


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XXXI

            A FEW DAYS IN BROUSSA—THE TRUE ISLAM ATMOSPHERE


THE Governor who, once more, “comes from Malta,” has detailed a police
officer to look after me during the five-days’ visit unexpectedly
imposed upon us, since there is no boat leaving before then. My journey
from Angora to Constantinople will, therefore, occupy ten days instead
of the regulation two or three.

We start out the first thing in the morning and do not return till dusk.
I have never visited so many mosques, and their colouring seems even
more exquisite than I have found it elsewhere.

Naturally, however, we first went to pay our respects to the Governor,
who promised to give me certain special information next day. His konak,
however, happened to catch fire soon after we left, and in less than an
hour it was reduced to cinders. There was, fortunately, little wind,
though, as we watched the flames from our hotel, one could feel no
security that it might not spread all over the town and render us, too,
homeless.

It was, as it happens, a brigand, descending by chance from the
mountains, who had saved the whole town from destruction when the Greeks
left it in flames, after demolishing their church and setting fire to
their houses. Fifteen surrounding villages were, actually, burnt to the
ground. The French proprietress of the hotel told me the town was not
ravaged by Ottoman Greeks, but by the Hellenes. Their own Greeks cried
bitterly at being compelled to leave, but were terrified into flight,
many of them dying at Moudania or on the road.

I heard an amusing story from my Dutch friend in Smyrna which
illustrates in what “great respect” the Turkish army has always been
held by Greeks. One of their officers, reconnoitring on the hillside,
was seen to run back to his men, shouting: “They are coming! They are
coming! There are fezes everywhere!” He had caught sight of a field of
poppies!

Madame herself is “desolated” by the departure of her Greek servants,
and puts no real reliance on the Jews by whom she has been obliged to
replace them. Although getting on in years, she is eighty-six, she never
dare go to bed before any of her guests, lest someone should ring and
obtain no answer. I enjoyed examining, in her visiting book, the
signatures and humorous comments of English prisoners, who were with her
during hostilities.

Everywhere the Jews are stirring themselves, in and out of their
quarters, eager to take on anything abandoned by the Greeks, as
shoemakers, plumbers, tradesmen, and labourers of all kinds. Nowhere
else, I imagine, could one hear them boasting “I am an Israelite.” Our
guests include many Jews, and they are quickly finding their way more
than ever into the good graces of the Turks.

I hope they will soon organise the splendid “bathing” one could enjoy at
Broussa if only some comfortable rest-place were set up for recovery
from the bracing effects of such strong waters. Surely the Baths of
Broussa might be promoted into a gold mine!

I wonder if the town is really as old as Angora? In parts it is more
dilapidated, as one can see from walking about its deserted streets, so
sorely in need of repair, and glancing up at the broken windows on every
side. Nevertheless I, personally, delight in the delicate charm of this
famous Asiatic city, free from a “Levantine” population and the relics
of Byzantium that rather spoil Constantinople.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The celebrated silk factories are not, of course, so picturesque; and
the depressing mixture of steam heat, and smell is certainly calculated
to make one long for the very latest kind of progressive machinery to
replace such unhealthy “human” labour. Here, again, we find Jews and the
so-called “Catholics,” have replaced the Greeks; and the proprietors
(who are so often Jews) only complain that there are not more hands
available.

This means, of course, not enough competition; and wages have risen from
thirty to sixty piastres a day. For this reason they miss the Greeks and
Armenians, although the new men are equally good workers.

“We have also to employ Turkish women,” they say.

“Are they good?”

“No, very bad. They _can_ work, but have never done so, and have no
experience. Yet we must pay sixty piastres for their unskilled labour.”

“Then you are running the factories at a loss, with these high wages?” I
asked.

“Oh, no! We ‘make up’ for that by paying the peasants half their old
price for the raw silk.”

“Do they complain?”

“No. We tell them that times are bad; which they understand, and
accept.”

It is an excellent example of the ease with which almost anyone can make
his profit out of the Turk. He is satisfied with so little, and seldom,
or never, protests. For years Greeks and Armenians have filled their
pockets at his expense. Now we have driven them out of their homes and
Jews are quickly filling their place. No wonder they turn on their
Christian “protectors,” and resent our “interference.” To them money is
the breath of life, and money is more easily made in Turkey than
anywhere else in the world.

Whatever prosperity these districts have managed to retain largely
depends on the silk-making and the tobacco factories. All the Europeans
are, naturally, against any attempts to abolish capitulations. “They are
not likely to leave us,” say the Turks, “where else would they be
granted ‘capitulations’?”

The bazaar at Broussa has lost none of its Eastern charm, but prices
have gone up by leaps and bounds since I was here ten years ago. They
will, probably, soon rise still higher when hand-embroidery dies out
before the machine-made imitations.

The Central Mosque has been rather disfigured by the over-zealous
multiplication of mural texts; but the beautiful fountain preserves the
most marked characteristic of all mosques, on which their “appeal” so
largely depends. It also contains some very fine specimens of the
curious old clocks, which only show Turkish hours.

In the courtyard there are more fountains and many pigeons, and the
public letter-writer. Just now he is hard at work for a profitable
customer who, one might think, surely knew how to conduct his own
correspondence. From my experience as an amateur, doing my best for the
_Poilus_, I should never imagine that letter-writing could be an easy
profession.

How well I remember the poor boy (a particularly serious “case”) who
asked me to “tell Jeanne” that ... “he was well and happy and enjoying
himself. But that some friends had written and told him she had not been
faithful, and ‘he didn’t care.’ All the girls were running after him,
and the grand ladies, too. He hadn’t any time to think about _her_.”

He afterwards gave me careful instructions about a P.S. “But I do think
of her sometimes.” In another few minutes it was, “I often think of
her.” And, finally, “you can tell her that I forgive her, and love her
as much as ever.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Every corner of Broussa reveals the true “Islam” atmosphere; whether you
look down on it from the surrounding heights, or wander along its quaint
streets and alleys. Everywhere you see latticed windows, mosques, and
dervishes’ Tekké. It stands on a wide stretch of marshland, seemingly
going on for ever, with its countless rows of skeleton-poplars, that
stand out in the blue-grey mist like ghostly sentinels.

I decided there could be no better opportunity to indulge in an
adventure I had often contemplated: climb up the highest of all the
minarets to reach “the top of the top!” The narrow and winding staircase
was sadly in need of repair; but at the long last I found myself on the
tiny balcony from which the muezzin daily summons “the faithful” to
prayer.

“Do you think I might sing?” I asked. “It would be interesting to know
how far the voice carries at this height.”

“As you please,” he answered; but as it was clear that he was decidedly
embarrassed, if not shocked, I contented myself with quietly humming
_Gloria in Excelsis_. When I told him the words—“On earth peace, to men
of goodwill,” he answered, reverently, “_Inch Allah_.”

“You see,” I explained, “the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer, I
call them to peace.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

As, perhaps, I ought to have foreseen, it proved a far more difficult
business to get _down_ those steps than it had been to climb _up_.
Somehow the walls seemed closing in upon me, and the mere idea of
starting upon the descent brought on a fit of unmanageable giddiness. My
guide promptly offered to carry me, but I did not believe it could be
done; and, in any case, I should not wish him to make the attempt. When
I have plucked up courage to trust my own feet, they are constantly
slipping over the worn stones, and often we find three or four missing
altogether; still it would not be possible to jump.

“I am only just in front of you,” said my guide, “if you fall, you will
fall on me.”

I _ought_ to have been thoroughly ashamed of myself, but I could only
say, “You must let me manage my own way and slide down as best I can.”

I am perfectly comfortable in an aeroplane at an altitude of 10,000
feet; and to this day I have never been able to understand why that
minaret made me so giddy.

We visited the tombs of Osman and many of the other Sultans buried in
Broussa, the ancient capital of Turkey. The idea of the continual
watching of the tomb, and, indeed, the whole attitude of Islam towards
death, is full of beauty. One does not wish to believe that the Greeks
marched up to this Holy Place with drawn swords, cursing the founder of
the Osman Dynasty.

We also drove to the famous Green Mosque, immortalised by Pierre Loti.
The actual colour of this fine building is a most wonderful turquoise
blue; but, like those jewels, it may, indeed, one day grow green with
age. Here Pierre Loti used to write his books, reclining on the
magnificent carpets, of which the quality and beauty have defied time
itself. On one side stands the large door (replacing the altar) of
exquisitely blended green porcelain and delicate gold lettering; on the
other, the cool and sparkling fountain. All day long he worked in this
hallowed atmosphere; where the invisible mouths of the fountain send out
a gorgeous mass of rainbow-hued spray into the sun’s white rays.

The guardian of the mosque, who used to serve coffee and bring Loti’s
narghili and arrange the cushions, has been laid to rest near by; and
now Loti’s long life is drawing to its close. His best work was done in
the mosque at Broussa, as his countless admirers should not forget—the
shrine of one of Turkey’s truest friends.

Here, in the East, all may enter God’s House; and it is here that every
day, all day long, you see (as, indeed, you may in France) men and women
of every sort and condition, unburdening their hearts of joys or
sorrows, some carrying a homely parcel, a loaf of bread, or their goods
to market; others carrying their little children. No doubt, the
mosque—or the church—offers warmth and shelter; but its quiet solemnity
must turn our thoughts from all the pettiness of existence, the false
pride, and the ugly sin. Nor do those who are, as it were, so thoroughly
“at home” in God’s House, pray with any less earnestness or sincerity.

What a contrast to the cathedral at Geneva I visited with a French
ex-Ambassadress. We had to send for the caretaker, who _unlocked_ the
door for us and _locked it up again_ as we left. Yet this was once a
church; holy men had dedicated their genius to make it beautiful,
because it was the House of God. It is not God’s House now; only a
building where men meet and speak. “Have we, indeed, lost faith in
anything,” said my companion, as the door was closed behind us “which of
us would God Himself lock out? Are there none left who would pray to
Him? To what vain and untrusting materialism will mankind yet lower
drift?”

One morning, unable to hold in the interest awakened by a handsome,
young Turkish woman with veiled hair, who was sitting near me in the
hotel, I, at last, ventured to ask her if she would “excuse my staring,”
but “she so much reminds me” of an old friend, Dr. Nihat Réchad.

“He is my brother,” she replied in excellent English, obviously
delighted. It appears she had lost touch with him for many years; only
knowing that he had been in prison and escaped to join Mustapha Kemal.
Now she hoped he must be coming into his own again.

I was glad to tell her how greatly we appreciated Dr. Réchad in London.

Our acquaintance brought me many new pleasures in Broussa, in addition
to her own delightful society and her most friendly baby. She introduced
me to many of the nicest people in the hotel, and arranged for us to
visit the admirable hospitals of Dr. Nazoum, head of the Army Medical
Service, who was a friend of her husband’s.

There were two Turkish gentlemen, however (General Kemallidine Pasha and
Nourredine Pasha), whom I had been warned _not to see_, because they
were “such bears and hated England”; naturally, having thus had my
combative curiosity excited, I eagerly sought for introductions to them.
And I could not admit the justice of their condemnation.

General Kemallidine Pasha is about thirty-five, with an honest, open
face and merry eyes, that strongly reminded me of my brother; who—though
not wounded _eighteen times_ like the Pasha—has been so frequently sewn
up as to present to the world, so I tell him, no more than a figure of
“threads and patches.” He apologised for offering his left hand,
obviously pleased when I said, “it did not matter which of a hero’s
hands one is privileged to shake.” When I said that I was sorry to hear
he disliked my country, he gave the only explanation I ever obtained
from a Turk: “It is because I once loved her so well!”

And for that I have only one answer, provided for me by Mr. D——, who was
in Constantinople all through the war, and is convinced that the English
were, throughout, entirely misled by Greek and Armenian dragomen. He,
himself, would never trust these men to translate any newspaper article
for him. “Their work may be, and frequently is, quite correct, but they
are clever enough to impart an entirely different _meaning_ from one
language to the other; for example, with the word “iltehoc,” how can
that word be translated with all its shades of meaning?

“The most dangerous Englishmen,” he said, “were irresponsible young
colonels of twenty-five, the familiar “temporary gentlemen,” whose
sudden access to power and responsibility has, on other occasions, led
Great Britain into adventures she cannot, afterwards, disown. One must
regret, but can scarcely in fairness condemn, some of these brave boys
from the “edge of beyond” in Canada or Australia, who, of course, are
absolutely ignorant of Moslem customs, and, by training, rather
aggressively impatient of the slow ways of old England herself.

There were Turks of a very inferior type to be found to help them, as it
would be dishonest to deny. Those who made themselves _personna grata_
to the Allies, and enemies to the Nationalists, because they would sink
to any calumny or blackmail to secure a “job,” or to keep one.

It is, indeed, high testimony to the personality of General Harington
that, despite all the crimes committed “in his name,” General
Kemallidine, Ismet Pasha and Nourredine Pasha are unanimous in their
high tribute.

Our empire is built on confidence in the “Man on the Spot.” It has given
us our unrivalled position and a reputation for justice and generosity
none can rival. But, with the wrong men, it may have most disastrous
results; and, in Turkey, we still want to know _who sent Turkey’s élite
to Malta_?

Kemallidine Pasha gallantly summed up his acceptance of my
explanations.... “Now I see the difference between an English lady and
an English ‘temporary gentleman’!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Nazoum has taken us to his office and showed us his delightful
sketches. He also removed some ordinary picture postcards from their
frame to show us his wife’s picture hidden behind them.... “Twelve years
of a life that might have been given to one’s family stolen from me for
the rough and wandering life of war. Only a photograph. That is my
married life.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

We also visited Nourredine Pasha’s father-in-law, a dervish living in a
Tekké, and revived all my enthusiasm for their wonderful dancing to the
weird piping flute; although these dervishes are, I believe,
“contemplative.”

I was invited, when at the Assembly, by the Grand Tchelebi to visit
Konia, the chief city of the dancing dervishes, and was much tempted to
accept. I have never fully _understood_ the “mystic dancing,” derived,
as I was told, from our Psalmist’s command to “praise the Lord with
dance and song”; but no one could fail to recognise the fascination of
the weird rhythm to which the outspread skirts move with a haunting
grace that is all their own; like gigantic mauve and brown poppies over
the polished oak floor.

                  *       *       *       *       *

We were unfortunately too late to see much of Nourredine Pasha—the
General was starting on his Inspection. My guide had been too polite to
tell me my watch was slow. The General, however, found time to entrust
me with greetings to General Harington, and to express more hopeful
confidence in the future relations of our two countries. I am certainly
glad I did not accept anyone else’s judgment of this kind and
distinguished man. He is, however, a good ten years older than the other
generals of the Pasha’s new army whom I have met. I am now quite
accustomed to statesmen and generals of forty.

I think I must really have seen _everything_ in Broussa, including the
burnt hamlets of the countryside. I remember a school-house in this
district, where the master had been paid in corn, and in which four
generations of women, who gave us sweet goat’s milk, were now all living
in one room, tastefully arranged with cushions. They had been swept off
the face of the earth with the village in which they dwelt, by the
Greeks.

But I must not forget the hospital, full of poor women—victims of the
Greeks. If there _were_ such sights at the French Front, I mercifully
escaped seeing them; and here, for the first time, I realised what some
of my sisters have had to endure since the spirit of war has come over
us. Greek hatchets had been at work on Mme. Roufy Bey’s patients; and,
whether in face or hip, back or leg, too many of these terrible wounds
were festering, because it had been impossible to attend to them in
time.

I remember the mother who once answered her little girl’s natural
questions by telling her: “You just grew on my heart.” “How lovely,”
cried the child, “is that why mothers all carry the babies so near their
hearts?” “Yes, it is where we keep them.” Here was a poor Turkish mother
whose little one had been shot as it lay in her arms!

Through this devastated area, and having seen the utter destitution of
these people, I should have expected to find far greater bitterness
towards the Greeks. But they are well treated in all the prison-camps,
and never handled with brutality as they work on the roads. Yet they
look rough and desperate, showing none of the resignation with which the
Turk faces captivity, however ragged and tattered. These Greeks even
seem afraid if a Christian woman speaks to them, although they own that
their alarm does not come from either a guilty conscience or from terror
of their enemies, but only reveals the broken spirit of men betrayed and
alone. I feel, however, that to be always surrounded by the useless and
horrible devastation you have yourself inflicted, must unnerve the most
callous of human beings.

                  *       *       *       *       *

At about six o’clock on our last morning, an officer arrives to conduct
us to the station. The train starts at 7-30, reaching Moudania at nine
o’clock, where the boat _may_ leave at 9-30, or any time it likes. It is
a short and uneventful train journey, only relieved by a brisk trade in
tea at our two stopping-places.

We find a high wind and rough seas at Moudania, and the boat has not yet
_arrived_! There is plenty of time to drive to a unit of headquarters,
where the officer’s mother (whom he had “smuggled” through from
Constantinople) gives me coffee and cigarettes beside a welcome fire. We
pass the historic house in which Peace was signed; one of the many
examples in Anatolia of great achievements from small beginnings.

Moudania is, on the whole, more depressing than any of the miserable
towns I have been over; and the officer is, certainly, to be
congratulated on having secured the company of his mother.

It was about half-past six in the evening when we were summoned to
embark; and there was no sign of the “special cabin” that had been
promised me in this little cockle-shell of a boat, on which passengers,
nevertheless, are divided according to class. For my part, I chose to
travel second, as there was far more air; and, as we opened the door,
the “poultry yard” gave us a hearty welcome! The women had taken their
chickens and rabbits into their berths; the floor was strewn with corn
and lettuce-leaves! As I disliked sharing my bed with poultry, I should
be happier in the cold outside.

However, the first officer graciously gives up his cabin. It is tiny, by
no means immaculate, and papered with cheerful postcards. But, in the
place of honour, Queen of Beauty among the ladies of the Levant, hangs
Gladys Cooper! I have never so much admired that lovely actress as when
now she seemed smiling down at my mighty efforts to sleep in this
tiniest of bunks that had been built for someone of half my length and
width.

The little tub ultimately started at midnight, dancing over the waves to
Constantinople, where Turkish passports are no protection, and I must
now learn to depend on my credentials from England.

                  *       *       *       *       *

What is going to happen to me? Very possibly my passport will be taken
from me, or endorsed with the grim words “not to return to England.”

My mission, indeed, was harmless, if not sanctioned. I have, honestly,
endeavoured to see that England may be “a little better” understood by
the Nationalists in Anatolia. But in fighting Prussianism, we have been
slightly infected by that disease. It has crept into our legislation and
our administration. In free England, Cæsar reigns. We can say, as the
Turks say, “We have _Prussia_ to thank for our distress.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                             CHAPTER XXXII

 CONSTANTINOPLE NO LONGER THE CAPITAL—THE HEART AND SPIRIT OF TURKEY ARE
                                IN ANGORA


AS our little cockle-shell reaches the busy quay at Constantinople, the
veiled women collect their animals and carry them through the Custom
house. I am the only Britisher, yet the tall, well-built official
rapidly scans my passport and signs it without moving a muscle, or
showing the faintest surprise at my arrival by _that boat_, not even
opening his lips in reply to my good-morning. Is this army etiquette?
His kind face has been taught not to unbend. It seems a foolish way of
encouraging foreigners to understand us. “You are not English,” everyone
declares, “dear lady, you have too much heart to be English.”

“We English have hearts,” is my reply, “but, for some reason, we must
pretend we have none.”

Someone wearing a fez, perhaps a Moslem, insists on taking me to the
hotel, though I assure him that I am quite capable of carrying my little
bag, and a few rugs over my arm. But he has seen Fethi Bey’s letter, and
nothing, clearly, will prevent him from mounting beside the driver and
burdening himself with my belongings.

At Tokatlians’ Hotel, however, the Armenian porter handed him the truly
magnificent tip of two Turkish pounds. He assured me that others pay
double that sum for the little trip from the boat to the hotel!

I see, at once, that there is a difference between Angora and
Constantinople. In Anatolia no one would dream of thrusting his services
upon his country’s friend, or of accepting a two pound tip for so short
a ride. My Angora host’s servants could not even be induced to accept a
tip when I left. At Angora there was none of the Levantine haggling over
the price of a cab. In Constantinople I decided always to leave such
matters to the porter, who was a kindly man and did his best.
Nevertheless, I should seriously advise the Nationalists, when they are
back here, to fix a tariff for luggage and cabs, as the traveller is now
intolerably imposed on.

There is compensation, of course, in the return to Western comforts, if
not luxuries; above all, of the hot bath. I have already taken three;
and they tell me that, if I still don’t feel clean, it is only because
the water is always brown. One can, further, obtain the services of a
manicurist, a hairdresser, and a chiropodist, all worthy men; and how I
enjoy these hot-house sitting-rooms, and sheets like satin on the bed! A
touch of fever and full permission to stay tired, are quite enough to
make me perfectly content with my one “weary” hat—until my luggage
condescends to get _un_-lost.

                  *       *       *       *       *

General Harington invited me to the Harbié (British Headquarters);
chiefly, no doubt, to hear about the big men I have seen in Angora.
There are few Englishmen more keenly interested than he in the
personalities of the Nationalist leaders, particularly, of course, “the
Pasha.” He speaks affectionately of “that nice, honest, fine soldier,”
Ismet Pasha; and describes Refet Pasha as “a very clever man, one from
whom I have never had an unkind or discourteous word. We are the best of
friends.”

I asked him whether “he was _altogether_ in sympathy with the Turks.”

“You must remember,” he answered, “that I was with General Wilson. No
one could have had a finer chief; and no man, I dare to say, could have
followed more closely in his chief’s footsteps than I.”

“Could not our troops be withdrawn, while such an act might still seem
_le beau geste_?”

“We ought never to have been here,” he replied.

“It hurts my national pride to see you fine men doing police work.”

I told him all I had learned about “the Pasha’s” opinion of the
situation, and asked him when he intended to retire.

“As soon as I feel really confident that Peace will be ratified.”

“And Lausanne?”

“We shall have storms, but the result must be peace.”

“When?”

“As soon as we dare hope....”

I congratulated him on the rôle he had played at Moudania.

“I am glad,” he said, “to have rendered service to my country.”

“Can you see any motive for this disastrous policy in Constantinople?”

“I can only suppose that, for some reason, Mr. Lloyd George simply
refused to listen to the advice of everyone who knew Turkey, in favour
of friends entirely ignorant of the whole subject. I am almost disposed
to think he did not even consult his own Foreign Minister.”

“Why did you not go to Lausanne?” I asked.

“Well, I was not invited. Lord Curzon and Ismet Pasha appear to
understand each other; and they have clever experts at the Conference.”

“Do you not feel, however, that a “prejudiced” expert may do even more
harm than the Premier’s ‘men,’ who knew nothing?”

“If you can prove they are prejudiced, yes.”

“In my view, when the Turks mistrust them, it is enough.”

“That, surely, is not for me to say.”

I much fear it was “mistaken” modesty, which led General Harington to
think that his presence would “make no difference” at Lausanne.

                  *       *       *       *       *

On the other hand, his praise of Refet Pasha is well-deserved. It would,
indeed, require an exceedingly smart diplomatist to get over a man no
one can bluff, for all his courtesy and kindness. The “wonderful little
general” is always busy, but never _too_ busy to see the friends of his
country, who all delight in his wit.

“There is nothing he would not dare,” said Colonel Mougin. “I can
imagine him smoking a cigarette on the edge of Vesuvius! With a mere
handful of men he held his own against regiments of Allies all along the
line.”

When I first met Refet Pasha we spoke of Colonel Mougin, with whom he
had been photographed. I told him that I had been fighting the colonel
ever since we met.

“Fighting with that charming man?” he exclaimed.

“The charm of friendship is to fight in peace,” I replied, “or _Discuter
sans disputer_, as the French say.”

He laughed heartily, and then spoke with the deepest respect of General
Harington.

“You have yourself given me an example,” said I. “‘Love your enemies’,
as it is written.”

Colonel Mougin used to say that Refet Pasha had the glorious spirit of a
pioneer, and that his country made good use of the quality. When he had
cut his way through the wilderness of Anatolia, they sent him to take
possession of Constantinople, though the Allies were still there! At the
same time, he was to prepare the way for the axe that was once more to
chop with severity, speaking metaphorically, of course, in the departure
of the Sultan. When the Government machine at Constantinople was running
smoothly, he was sent off to tackle Thrace!

Refet Pasha spoke warmly of Colonel and Mrs. Samson, not forgetting
their charming little girl.

“He rendered great service to Turkey during the Siege of Adrianople. He
likes the Turks.”

“Like all British _gentlemen_,” I interposed, to his amusement.

[Illustration:

  GENERAL REFET PASHA AND COLONEL MOUGIN IN CONSTANTINOPLE.
  p. 288
]

“Enemies, or not enemies,” he said, “in spite of all the terrible things
your compatriots have done, they are fine and intelligent men. I
ventured to say to them: ‘Perhaps, by bringing every man you can obtain
from the four corners of the earth, you may crush our forces, but
_never_ our spirit. And remember, in crushing us you will mutilate
yourselves for ever!’ General Harington knows that. He perfectly
understands.”

The General spoke of his twenty-eight years’ service: the terrible
hardship of these last years, when they had to fight, not only the enemy
without, but those Turks who had thrown in their lot with the Allies.

“They say,” he went on, “soldiers love war. It is not true. They hate
it, because they know what it means. Politicians want war and make war;
we only have to obey.”

He has a very high opinion of the present Khalif, whom I myself met ten
years ago, in the days of Mahmoud II.

“Everybody has the greatest respect for him,” he went on, “and rightly;
a fine gentleman and a great artist.”

“How does he like not being a Sultan?”

“He is the Khalif,” he replied. “In his place, however, I might prefer
the lesser honour and the smaller responsibilities.”

“Do you approve of my going to Lausanne?” I asked.

“You have worked hard, and honestly, at studying the country and striven
very sincerely to understand my people. It will be well for your
delegates to be told the truth. Nevertheless, Lord Curzon himself knows
the subject inside out. He has made up his mind, and knows exactly what
he intends to do. Above all, he thoroughly understands what effect his
policy will produce.”

I believe every word. This time the Prime Minister will have nothing to
say; Lord Curzon has _full powers_. His responsibilities are heavy
indeed. With the terrible heritage of “ugly debts” incurred in the name
of England, of which he will personally be held guilty for years to
come! For him, the _right_ way is not the _easy_ way.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The British officials of Constantinople have been most kind to me; as
the only Englishwoman who knows the story of Angora, and has been near
to the “heart” of the Turks; they hope I shall go to Lausanne.

But who will listen? From the beginning of time, has an Englishman ever
asked a woman for her opinion, or listened to her if she expressed one,
even after being consulted! Often, of course, a personality like Lady
Hamilton’s, may exert great influence; but men do not come to us for
information or advice on policy however much we may know, however deeply
and clearly we may think. I am still uncertain of how much our women may
ever be allowed to effect in politics and diplomacy.

I once heard a story from a witty Frenchman, which “hits off” our _men_
to a miracle! Their stubborn tenacity, which has never _conceded_ an
inch to women that was not dragged out of them by main force! A
celebrated French Minister once came to London in hopes of securing a
certain concession. When he had spent an hour explaining his case, our
great personages briefly replied: “You might as well have asked us for a
part of Hyde Park!” He tried again, for another hour, with precisely the
same result. His reasons, any mutual advantages that might, or might
not, accrue, were absolutely ignored. They only answered, “You might as
well have asked us for Hyde Park!”

At Lausanne, unfortunately, there is every reason to fear that the
English and the Turks are _both_ adopting the method of not listening.
It works, of course (so far as getting your own way), if _one_ party is
firmly in possession; but when the claim to control is in dispute, and
neither can be induced to yield, one _must_ feel that a little
conciliation might be prudent.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Thinking it most unlikely that I shall have another opportunity of
talking so freely to any British officials, I have spoken with great
frankness of what has been in my heart for years, but what I now see can
never be changed.

Lord Curzon spoke courteously of my self-imposed mission “to serve my
country abroad,” but England will never entrust such tasks to women, or
even lend them any _official_ sanction.

This, then, is my swan song of the work which I have proved that a woman
_can_ do. Before leaving the stage, I may say what I think.

“If you suppose that we are going to let any Tom, Dick or Harry run our
Embassies, as they do in America, you are very much mistaken.” I was
once “officially” informed: “We may be accused of being socially
exclusive, but everyone knows to which Embassy they should appeal when
anything _has to be done_.”

“That does not touch my complaint,” I answered. “I shall continue to
resent the fact that _we_ are not allowed the same footing as women in
other countries. We have at last secured the vote, and, theoretically,
the right of entry to all professions; but, proud as we are of Lady
Astor and Mrs. Wintringham, their presence in Parliament has, rather
unfortunately, produced an impression of far more ‘freedom’ and
‘equality’ than we have actually achieved. Some are indeed safely on the
heights, but most women have not yet even planted their feet on the
lowest rung of the ladder.

“Everyone knows that the Englishman is chivalrous to women, and is their
surest anchor in distress. He will willingly die for them, but he
maintains his rooted objection to being asked to help them to live.

“The French Government sent a _woman_ to Angora with the fullest
official backing in finance and prestige. Their Ambassador provided a
plan for her journey, and has made public acknowledgment of her service
to France.”

“We do not require women for this work,” was the dogmatic reply; which
also, of course, ignored the _principle_ involved in such official
rigidity.

But with the unfailing courtesy which the best Englishman never denies
to the women whose “interference” he most resents, “I hope you made our
position clear to your friends the Turks. Those who serve our Government
have always done so of their own free-will. _That is why we are served
so well!_”

                  *       *       *       *       *

I approached this question from another angle at Lausanne. As I have
already pointed out, and illustrated from experience in an earlier
chapter, it is most advisable, if not essential, that the Ambassador,
like other great “Personages,” should employ agents to “try out” the
petty “first steps” of any change in policy.

I was told by way of reply, that “the first qualification for ‘entering
diplomacy’ is to be twenty-one!” This, of course, excludes a woman over
thirty; a fact that may serve for answer to many bitter attacks upon my
“Disadvantage of Being a Woman.” A man of threescore is seldom
considered too old for diplomacy; a woman of thirty-five is fourteen
years beyond the limit.

“What would you do with the old men?” I was asked.

“Teach them golf,” was my prompt retort.

                  *       *       *       *       *

At the Front in a French uniform, speaking French to my own compatriots,
I was always unwilling to confess my nationality. So long as they
thought I was French, they forgot the lady, and made a friend of the
woman! Shedding their “own” uniform, as it were, they “let go” in homage
and devotion; giving, being, and appealing for _themselves_. But the
moment it came out that I was English, the open oyster closed down and
hid its pearl. From these spruce, upright, and tightly-buttoned uniforms
I could never get through the politeness.

As an interpreter in the Guards once explained it: “When one of your
Generals asks me to buy him a _Vie Parisienne_, he never forgets to add,
‘but don’t give it to me in front of my officers.’” It must be the same
with women. The Englishman will allow a _French_ woman to “have a peep”
at his soul. To his compatriot he offers his dignity and his
prestige—which are no better than a bag of bones!

What I have always known, has been brought home more forcibly than ever
during this trip. In matrimony, at his office, and in the home, the
Englishman must be master. We can, if we must, accept a _good_ master.
Who will help us against the _bad_? Do the _Laws_ of England?

It sometimes seems indiscreet for an Englishwoman to visit the British
Embassies in foreign capitals, but I rarely omit to call on the French;
and there are, of course, certain advantages, under some circumstances,
in a twin-nationality. I have been invited to their Christmas lunch by
General and Madame Pellé.

Mr. Neville Henderson, the British _chargé d’affaires_ at
Constantinople, though certainly not pro-Turk, does not hesitate to
criticise the Greeks. An ideal sense of balance for a diplomat.

The Turks like Mr. Henderson; and when I remarked on the apparent
anomaly that “one can be popular in Turkey without being pro-Turk,” I
was met by the astounding retort that “he succeeds because he knows how
to talk”—a strong argument against “silent” diplomacy!

I can only hope that he may long remain at his post. Although he may not
like to hear his beloved Foreign Office called a “mausoleum,” or the
burial-ground for twentieth-century ideals. Of him, one can repeat what
a Cabinet Minister once said of France: that “he is one of the few ready
to give a criminal, or a genius, _his chance_.” Though not an enthusiast
for any “Asiatic Revival,” he will accept the inevitable, and cheer the
winner. May he stay at his post _at least_ till danger is past.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I have just made my first, and I hope my last, stay in Pera. The
sister-in-law of my little Turkish sister is dying, so I cannot accept
her hospitality, though she has begged me to come to her.

What a terrible warning one can take from Pera! I had not realised the
danger of losing oneself in the ambition to be truly cosmopolitan. These
people belong to all nations and have the souls of none. Their faces
have only one common feature—the lack of the spirit behind all racial
types, the entire absence of any ideal. In Anatolia I found two forms of
inborn honour: the “nationalist” and the “primitive peasant.” In Pera I
stepped from Tokatlian’s Hotel to the Embassy with the feeling that
someone is going to stab me in the back.

                  *       *       *       *       *

This is the fourth Christmas I have spent in Turkey. On the first
occasion the Germans invited me to their Christmas Tree; outside some
Armenians sang their exquisite native carols; which, like their
folk-songs, make one wish their characters were equally fine. The
concert, however, was interrupted by the master-scavengers of
Constantinople, the innumerable dogs, against whose furious barking the
Christians at first bravely held on. But the “enemy” trotted away to
collect his forces from every quarter of the city and, in the end, I won
a wager for the dogs _versus_ the Christians. Our entertainers went
home, amidst a never-to-be-forgotten chorus of canine howling.

In Constantinople the dogs certainly had their own nationality. Divided
against each other by street feuds, the biggest troop coming from the
“station beat,” where cans of rubbish are emptied from the Orient
express, they yet _united_ to drive out the “alien” Christians from the
fatherland of “Dogdom!”

And so it is with the Moslems. If Albania and Syria have left their
fatherland, it is not wise for a foreigner to utter a word against
Turkey in their presence.

Mustapha Kemal Pasha will find no difficulty about proving his
confidence in Nationalism. “If Europe deny us justice, we shall obtain
justice from Asia The brotherhood of Islam stands solidly for us.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

This Christmas, after a pleasant dinner at the hotel with Mr. D——, I
asked him to take me to church. “Can you hold on to Faith after what you
have seen?” he asks.

“I have sometimes nearly lost hold. But when I realise that ‘war’ has
taken away everything else from us, I just _hang on_, hard.”

So I go to church alone, leaving the hideous jazz-band and the noisy
dancers; who drink and step out like kangaroos by way of enjoyment!

The eternal beauty of the midnight Mass carries one right away from the
dreadful tragedy of life, handing us, too, spiritual food for the
heart’s strengthening. On the way home I was humming the Christmas hymn,
“Come and Adore Him,” when a clash of discord struck at me from the
approaching hotel-mob; for _their_ part, humming “_j’en ai marre_” (“I
am fed up”) the most contagious refrain ever uttered.

I, very unreasonably, poured out my wrath on Mr. D—— next morning. “Is
it impossible to make them realise what their song _means_? Nero fiddled
while Rome was burning; they are dancing to the tune of a poor woman’s
broken heart. Someone will soon find a gay air for “the Song of the
Shirt,” and men will be hopping and braying to it.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

At last I am, fortunately, able to drive quietly away from Pera. “You
haven’t changed a bit, you always disliked Pera,” my little Turkish
sister had said. “I remember that when we used to go to the Ottoman Bank
to fetch your letters you would have the horses whipped up so as to ride
to Pera and back as quickly as possible.”

Again I am gazing upon the “Sublime Porte.” It is still “sublime” and
the sunset has not changed. Yet no longer can it command my love; and
woman does not reason!

The old buildings are as magnificent as ever; the sun is still sparkling
on the gold; the picturesque beggars are still there; the blue sky, the
Bosphorus, and the cypress trees!

Only the heart and spirit of Turkey have gone to Angora. This is no
longer the Turkey of the Turks; and so I am a stranger here, and there
are no friendly faces of the Anatolians to give me greeting.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Along the road the same houses are tumbling down, at exactly the same
stage of decrepitude. “Nothing has changed, my child,” I say, “except my
heart.”

As we pass the old Tekké, however, I miss the kindly face that used to
smile on me from behind the green grilled window; and we laugh over the
curious souvenirs I managed to obtain from that holy man.

I was walking with Colonel Z., ten years ago, the first day I noticed
him at the window; the big, lovely, dark eyes; the green swathed turban;
the Persian robe; and on his face the look of the “peace that passeth
understanding.” He must be the “Sower that went forth to sow,” I said,
“please take me in to him.”

“But I cannot,” said the colonel; and so, before he realised what I was
doing, I just walked in myself and told the holy man that “I had come to
look at his ‘beautiful face.’” After that I paid him many visits,
sharing his coffee, making signs to the women, and watching his strange
worship, that had not even any accompaniment of the piping flute.

He told me that no Christian had ever before been admitted into the
Tekké.

“Do you consider me a heathen?” I asked.

“No, we are all children of God. How can one of His children be a
heathen?”

                  *       *       *       *       *

“What has become of the old man?” I asked my Turkish sister.

“They ordered his son—you remember that fine lad—to say _Vive la Grèce,
Vive Venizelos_, and when he refused, they shot him.”

“But what of the old man?”

“It broke his heart. One day he just fell asleep and did not wake
again.”

The harem door is still open. The little daughter, now thirteen, still
calls me Tezajim (dear Aunt), and we find seats on the marble veranda to
wait for the sun to set over the shores of the Marmora.

“How often I think of you,” murmured my little sister, “trying and
trying, day after day, to paint our sunset.” And when I repeated that to
the late Sir Alfred East he laughed heartily, saying, “Dear child,
Turner could not have done it?”

                  *       *       *       *       *

And who has taken the place of my attendant, Miss Chocolate? The slim
figure of a coal-black negress appears to answer my question, robed in
brown velvet, with a brown velvet toque. I must call her Miss Ink,
though her name is Mary.

I lunch with my Turkish sister as often as the poor sick woman can spare
her, and she is generous. Yet eighteen of her friends are there already.
This time my friend wears a fur coat and a black veil with lace over it.
“Fancy calling _that_ a veil, I teased her. Yet I can count the steps
taken in the progress of Turkish women by our lunches. The first time I
came to Turkey, you wanted to go up in a lift, and though your father
said neither ‘yea’ nor ‘nay,’ you did not go. The second time you often
used the lift. The third time, we lunched at Tokatlian’s restaurant,
‘for ladies only.’ Now you lunch unveiled (I don’t call _that_ a veil)
in a _mixed_ restaurant.

“And yet, now you have won the privilege for which you have been waiting
so many years, you prefer to lunch ‘with the ladies.’ How like a woman!”


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                             CHAPTER XXXIII

   LAUSANNE PALACE HOTEL—THE HOME OF TURKEY, FRANCE, AND JAPAN—“EVERY
              POSSIBLE PHASE OF COMPLETE INTERNATIONALISM”


“PLEASE reserve comfortable room for Englishwoman coming from Angora,”
so ran the telegram despatched by an American friend of mine, who had
gallantly determined that I should be well looked after. It was both
comfortable and warm; and, to complete the welcome, my waking eyes next
morning are caught by the two flags I have learnt to love so well, the
Turkish and the French—the “standards” of two brave peoples, with the
fine spirit that nothing can subdue, who would choose rather to be
annihilated than to live in servitude.

Then I notice the flag of Japan! “What has Japan to do with it?” I ask
Ismet Pasha.

“Ah, Miss d’Angora,” he answers with a laugh, “it is fine sport to watch
the poor little bird as they pluck out his feathers and clip his wings.”

Indeed, Lausanne has been “revolutionised” by this Conference of Peace!
It is a golden harvest for the hotels, which have not a room unoccupied.
Every day luncheons, dinners, and banquets! Everywhere representatives
of the world’s Press! I feel strange, somehow, in a “neutral” country.
Ever since 1914 I have been living, or travelling, over “seats of war,”
in lands fighting to defend, or attack, an Ideal.

One can respect any sort of an “opinion” from some point of view; but
“neutrality” and “anonymity” do not sound to me like attributes in which
a free and independent people should feel much pride. Yet the
“neutrality” of Switzerland means the _International Red Cross_ and the
_League of Nations_; and it has surely earned by its hospitality to the
world’s statesmen, a right to play _its_ part in the historical peace,
for which “the God who Forgives” is waiting.

The Orient express is bringing the peoples together; Lord Curzon
from London, Ismet Pasha from Angora. May their political discussion
travel under one company to our home of peace! This Hotel of the
Strange Tongues is fast become a very Tower of Babel, for it reveals
every possible phase of complete internationalism, from fox-trots
and cocktails to the folk-songs of Anatolia, sung by the Pasha’s
Guards when off duty. Here, too, are thronging a host of new
nationalities—Georgians, Bolsheviks, Syrians, Sons of Palestine, and
Armenians; each fired by their own ideals, each proud of their
independence; all sighing for the (political) moon.

For the moment, of course, the Conference has resolved itself into a
duel between Lord Curzon and Ismet Pasha. Mme. B., indeed, is indignant
because, she says, “our English representative has so bullied the French
delegate that he has been obliged to take to his bed,” though one can
hardly believe that proud and mighty Republic would choose a man whom
anyone could really bully to bed!

I tried to imagine the Conferences of the future! “We should appoint a
bear for our delegate,” I said, “send him round to all the other
delegations in turn, to grunt! When his confrères had all taken to their
beds, he could dictate his own term.... After the senile sensitiveness
of M. Barrère, the youthful ‘insolence’ of Riza Nour is most
refreshing.”

This is the first occasion of big diplomacy in which Turkey has ever
dared to assert herself. “A free and independent Turkey” is so unheard
of; one sadly fears it may even now be dismissed as “mere bluff.” Do
they realise, or will they ever believe, that a vast, well-trained army
(who _may_ be called fanatics) are _ready_ and _thoroughly prepared_ (by
military experts) to come out at a word from their great leader, and
once more save their Fatherland? It is sad to feel that the “Hymn of
Independence” I heard on all sides at Angora, should sound as much “out
of harmony” with the tone of the Conference, as “Anatolian” folk-songs
with a Jazz Band!

America has sent “representatives,” whose chief is called _An Observer_
and rejoices in the name of _Child_—“The Child Observer” or, as it is
whispered, “The Boy Scout.” To point the humour of the situation, I
naturally expected to meet a hoary-headed old gentleman with a long
white beard, like his predecessor at Rome, Ambassador Robert Underwood
Johnson. But though I was not aware of it at the time, he is the very
young man I reduced to silence, by inquiring the way in what he called
voluble French, who simply led me to the place without comment, rang the
bell, and went away!

At the Conference one still sees the Powers in turn calling Turkey “to
order,” when their own arrogance has reduced her delegate to a condition
of what the Press calls his “more than usual insolence.” Then the “Boy
Scout” or “Child Observer” would “try a little kindness,” to Ismet
Pasha. “Don’t you see the whole world is against you,” to which came the
dignified rejoinder, “We have become accustomed to that.”

As it was in Angora, everyone here talks politics all day. But I am told
that, while they only enjoyed themselves at Genoa, they do work at
Lausanne. I quite believe in this “work”; certainly the Turkish
delegates are hard at it till two or three every morning. But they do
not forget enjoyment altogether. The younger members from the
commissions have treated themselves to a _thê dansant_. “It warms your
feet,” said Hussein Djahid, who takes his dancing very seriously.
“Surely Turks don’t suffer from cold feet,” I exclaimed, “and I don’t
believe you really like it, you only dance to show us that you can
_dance_.”

The Press is luxuriously installed in a miniature palace of its own, at
the Palace Hotel; a bar, of course, a gramophone, a perfect
dancing-floor, roulette, and, incidentally, “plenty of room to write.”
Mr. Ward Price politely regrets that “etiquette” will not permit him to
ask me for an interview. Why should newspaper etiquette be allowed to
hamper his “duty” as a good sportsman?

To the one journalist who really counts at Lausanne (though his articles
were not always printed), I ventured to bring grave charges against the
Press. “How is it men of talent and education have allowed themselves to
sink to the level of mere machines, that any ‘big’ proprietor can use to
manipulate public opinion? The ‘Power of the Press’ is a fraud. You
never give us the benefit of your knowledge and judgment; whether we
take a ‘pennyworth of news,’ or let ‘bang go saxpence.’ ‘Alas,’ said
Shakespeare, ‘to choose love by another’s eyes!’ Is it not a hundred
times worse ‘to write by another’s ears?’”

You write only what Mr. MacClure deigns to approve; and, though
doubtless honest and unbiassed, he is not himself really “free.” He
feeds you daily, like the animals in Regent’s Park, and, after a good
night, you may digest the food. It would be far more honest to issue an
“official” Report, without the “false” impression of personal judgments
formed on the spot, which a “special correspondent” is meant to produce.
The public is taught to laugh at Ismet’s pleasantries, via Mr. MacClure!
Now I have heard the Pasha rehearsing, and Lord Curzon preparing his
“part”; but I still want to witness the duel upon the public platform,
_for myself_.

Could one ever forget the most dramatic moments of the Second Conference
at the Hague! Can such incidents be reported unless one has actually
seen them! I remember Mr. Choate was down one afternoon to speak on
Disarmament. As he rose, Baron Marshall von Bieberstein deliberately
closed his ears, and opened a sheet of paper and began to write. Drawing
himself up to his commanding height, with a stern air of dignity, Mr.
Joseph Choate began—“I have prepared my speech with great care for the
express benefit of Baron Marshall. If the _noble_ gentleman is too busy
to “listen” this afternoon, he would, perhaps, be good enough to make
another appointment!” Surely the fine picture of this grand American
calling the “noble” Baron to order upon a question of good breeding is
one which each correspondent must see, hear, and describe for himself.

It is, no doubt, largely due to the great difficulty of obtaining first
hand news, that most people are anti-Turk. We were told, for example,
that Riza Nour was “insolent”; whereas he had patiently listened for
hours to nonsense about the “National Armenian Home,” _before_ he left
the Conference room in despair of being permitted to tell the truth.

And, partly no doubt because they may not comment upon anything of real
importance, the papers are always ready to enlarge upon some trivial
detail that is calculated to fan the flames of hate, or point the finger
of scorn, towards any Turk. Someone asserted that the Turkish military
expert had made a little mistake in preparing a map. He himself did not
admit that he was wrong; but in any case, no one pretended that the
matter was in the least important; and it could, ultimately, be
rectified without the slightest effect on policy. Remember, too, that
the poor man was working from surveys prepared on different systems, and
in a language that describes everything for us backwards. It would not
be remarkable if some slight error _were_ made in transposing the
details to European measures and methods. Yet the papers all give
columns exposing the “little mistake,” which, most probably, was never
made. Vital questions, meanwhile, were almost entirely ignored in the
Press; and the “insolent” Asiatics are filled with bitter resentment. It
is idle for Mr. MacClure to say that “they must expect criticism.” What
they complain of is not “criticism,” but the entire “ignoring” of their
point of view—a very different thing.

The journalist whom I thus attacked admitted that they deserved all I
said. “The public,” he added, “_has_ been misled, one might say
‘cheated.’ I _could_ myself have supplied a good deal of first-class
information, sufficiently dramatic and interesting to ‘raise
circulations’; had I refused my signature to the ‘official’ news so
sparingly doled out for me to put into shape. I can promise you that, on
me at least, your words have not been wasted.”

Let us hope he may substantiate his pledge. At present the Press is
neither a critic, a check on intrigue, nor an inspiration. It echoes the
Governments, good or bad. In Constantinople, for instance, the American
and English “special correspondents” frankly confessed that they employ
a few “scouts” to collect copy, and merely “hash up” what comes in from
these “scavengers” of rumour and gossip.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Propaganda in the Turkish Press is under the direction of Kemal Bey (the
poet) and Ruchène Echref. Men of such literary distinction, alas, are no
better fitted for such work than a watchmaker would be to heave coal. In
Turkey they do not understand how heavy are the hands that can mange
propaganda: that posts are created for the men who can fill them, and
men are not made for any post that may happen to be vacant.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was always a pleasure, _and_ a surprise, to meet Lord Curzon socially
at Lausanne; and if only his traditional respect for British prestige
would have allowed him to be “himself” with Ismet Pasha and the Turkish
delegates, to approach discussions with all the charm and wit that he
knows so well how to exert, I am convinced that the _practical_ gain to
both countries would be enormous.

For though in debate his “official” manner is bound to emphasise the
impression of a determined man, so clearly knowing his own mind that
argument or even discussion is waste of time; I found him sincerely
interested in all the personal details of my trip; and his penetrating
questions were proof enough that he is quite ready to hear all sides,
and really anxious to understand the country, the people, and their
point of view, from anyone who knows them, irrespective of what
“heresies” they may uphold. To me personally, he was not only courteous,
but respectfully attentive; the only Englishman whose compliments and
praise _meant_ a real gratitude, a serious acknowledgment of my fifteen
years’ study and adventure, as “worthy service to my country.”

Ismet Pasha asked me if I had succeeded in making Lord Curzon understand
the grave importance of their movement.

“I may have helped a little,” I answered, “I believe I have. But he has
always understood nearly the whole truth. What I fear _you_ and your
friends must find it almost impossible to understand is the “public
opinion” in the West, which he cannot ignore.

“Does he know how foolish it is to talk of a “home” for Armenia?”

“He knows it would be as useless as to tie ‘a swarm of bees under a
donkey’s nose.’ But, though—as you justly say—it is not their business,
England cannot ignore America and the Powers. It would not bring you
peace, or justice, to affront them. I do not wonder that you and Riza
Nour grow impatient with the wasteful methods of traditional diplomacy;
but that is _our_ way of democracy, to conciliate public opinion by a
pose of far greater obstinacy and intolerance than we feel, or intend to
act on.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

We in England, however, should realise that, however wise and sincere
Lord Curzon’s own sympathy may be, the general attitude—in England and
the Continent—is still based on our interpretation of the “old” Turkey.
Our experts, for example, in Constantinople, still approach the
Nationalists as they were accustomed to order about Abdul Hamid’s Turks.
They are, naturally and inevitably, “touchy” in Angora, but we shall not
help matters by any offensive allusions to the “Moslem with his tail up,
no thank you!”

[Illustration:

  LAUSANNE PALACE HOTEL.
  THE HOME OF TURKEY, FRANCE, AND JAPAN.
  p. 304
]

It would be not only wiser and fairer, but more dignified, to
congratulate these people on the achievements of the Grand National
Assembly, which the “Mother of Parliaments” should surely welcome with
honour and respect.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I found Ismet Pasha often depressed by the immensity of his task;
harassed, too, lest his own people should not feel that he had done
enough. “They have sent me, a soldier, to fight a Bismarck, one of your
greatest statesmen,” he said one day.

I repeated what Lord Curzon had told me, with obvious sincerity, “You
know, I _like_ the little man.”

“And I respect _him_,” was the prompt reply, as his bright eyes lit up
with renewed hope and courage.

Another day he was again in despair. “Well, it will just _have_ to be
war.”

But I would not hear the word. To all the Turks, Riza Nour, Tewfik,
Hikmet, I say the same. “We are both in the wood. We must walk round and
round, until we have found a way out.”

It may sound paradoxical, but, while there is absolutely no offence to
British prestige in the National Pact that is worth shedding one drop of
human blood to remove, it yet stands for such vital ideals, means so
much, and has been achieved with such grand courage and self-sacrifice,
that the Nationalists must uphold and defend it to the bitter end. That
is the “problem” of Lausanne.

There is, however, no reason why, if foreigners are afraid to trust
themselves, and the capital, in a Turkey governed by Turks (without
“protection,” which means “interference”) they should not leave the
people to find their own way towards commercial and political stability.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Lord Curzon, naturally, _told_ me nothing; but his questions enabled me
to guess at what he wished and intended to achieve. Perhaps I have
guessed wrongly.

Is he not anxious to keep Mosul, from fear of Russia. We could buy the
oil, and the Turks would gladly sell it. Also a promise to Arabs has
been broken before now; and if our bungling has led Turkey into a
temporary alliance with Russia, no one knows what will come of the
German-Jew Soviets. Maybe, we have far more need to protect India from
them, than to stand on our dignity with “new” Turkey.

The British Empire was founded, and can only survive, on Trust. It is a
poor policy that dare not act for fear of backing “the wrong horse.” It
is a criminal policy, when hesitation means war and the loss of millions
of lives.

Lord Curzon’s association with the Coalition has sadly shaken his high
repute for “good faith”; and unless he can see his way to come forward
frankly for a “free and independent” Turkey, the Nationalists will fight
in their own defence.

There seem to me too many “Commissions” at Lausanne. Closer contact
between Lord Curzon himself and those able men, Djavid and Hamid Bey, as
well as Ismet Pasha, would surely not only go far to restore their
confidence in his good faith, but enormously “speed up” decisions on the
_essential_ problems that need to be promptly settled.

As I listened to the public speeches of Lord Curzon I was haunted by all
the fateful memories of the ruin I had seen in Angora. The doubt _would_
come; does he really realise the supreme necessity to wipe out for ever
that awful page of history, to _establish_ peace, and to _help_, with
all the tactful sympathy at his command, the new nation to stand on its
own feet. Maybe we should even be comforted by hope, if our Government
would only take us more fully into its confidence. The people of England
are, after all, deeply concerned. They have faith, they would gladly be
loyal; but why are they kept in the dark? When I am speaking with the
Turkish delegates, I sometimes fancy I catch a look on their faces of
“deep anguish” as we name Lord Curzon, and my heart sinks. How am I to
convince them, certain as I am he is right, that he is not drifting
towards the false “sentiment” that has been broadcasted to uphold the
Greeks?

                  *       *       *       *       *

On the anniversary of the In-Eunus, I dined with Ismet Pasha. When he
refused dates I told him that, “so long as he kept the ‘dates’ of his
victories, he needed no others.” “I left Constantinople with nothing,”
he answered. “I returned the head of the Army.” Turkey gives every man
his chance.

So far as possible, I am dividing my time between British and Turks; and
no one can say that either gives more time or “hard labour” to their
responsibilities, than the other. It is not possible, certainly, for any
visitor to interrupt Lord Curzon, he seems to be working all the time.

                  *       *       *       *       *

There is one figure we all watch carefully at the Conference. I once
compared the face of M. Venizelos to an Apostle! Now he hovers round the
British Delegation like a bird of ill-omen, for some inexplicable reason
still mesmerising our diplomatists, carrying trouble wherever he goes.
Djavid Bey laughs to remind me of how proud I had once been to pour out
tea for them both!

                  *       *       *       *       *

One naturally feels great interest in Melle Stanciof, as the first woman
diplomatist, and her personality repays study. Tall and thin, with the
large eyes of the Oriental, she is very able, speaks English without an
accent, and loves her work. I repeated to her the dogma that to be
twenty-one is an essential qualification for a diplomat; but she is
twenty-seven, and only laughed at the idea.

Sir Wm. Tyrell, Permanent Head of the British Foreign Office, with all
his Irish charm and wit, is as clever as Machievelli. He delights in
calling himself “Chief of the Underlings”; but men like Mr. Forbes Adam
and Mr. Harold Nicholson were experienced diplomats when their Turkish
colleagues were in their cradles; which, as Ismet Pasha sometimes
complains, “gives them no chance for a fair fight.” But when I dined
with them as his guests, there was no fighting; and our host, I felt,
was very well qualified to promote friendly relations, by the cultured
ease of his hospitality.

To my thinking, British “underlings” are very able men, and not
pro-Russian as the Turks are disposed to fear. They were all anxious for
peace, and quite sincerely eager to understand the nationalist point of
view.

                  *       *       *       *       *

During the conference both M. Poincaré and M. Mussolini visited Lausanne
and dined with Lord Curzon.

I have had many talks about the Patriarch, whom Mustapha Kemal declares
must be removed: “He must be got rid of, with the other relics of
Byzantium!” The problem is especially hard on Turkey, because it arose
from what ought to have been considered the great strength of the
nation, though—in this case—it has been exaggerated into weakness, her
immense tolerance for other people’s religion.

When the Byzantians conquered the Turkish tribes who had emigrated into
Asia Minor, they compelled the tribesmen to be converted, and join the
Orthodox Church. The Bible, and all their prayers, were translated into
Turkish; whence, without design, the Turkish Orthodox Church came into
being. When, later, under the Seldjoucides and Osmanli, Anatolia passed
into Moslem hands, no attempt was made to interfere with the Orthodox
religion of the people.

It was only when the Ottomans ruled in Constantinople and the Sultans
used their growing power to support the Greek Patriarch, that the
Anatolians began to see they were being manœuvred into the power of the
Helenes. During the war, the Patriarch’s intrigues became more daring
and more obvious; until Papas Eftim Effendi proposed in the Assembly
that Fanar should be separated from the Orthodox Church, and that the
Orthodox Church of Anatolia should rule in Thrace and Constantinople.

Yet when Ismet Pasha spoke of the religious “tolerance” of Turkey, Lord
Curzon replied: “How can you claim to be tolerant. All your past record
will be destroyed if you dismiss the Patriarch.” And rather than risk
such a charge against the Nationalists, he gave way.

It seems to me, I confess, that this concession is a grave risk. The
interference, thus permitted, may prove to be more disastrous than that
of a few foreign judges against which they so resolutely protest. As Mr.
Nicholson said he hoped that I had told Lord Curzon how much the Turks
were giving up.... “I think,” he said, “their tolerance is very fine.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Ismet Pasha often worked all night with his hench-men, Colonel Tewfik
and Hikmet Kiamil, a grandson of Kiamil Pasha, who has inherited his
grandfather’s political talents. They felt that the slightest failure to
meet the immense demands made on the delegation would stamp them as an
inferior race, and they determined it should not be.

It was actually after one of their most arduous sittings, up to three
o’clock in the morning, that I obtained from Ismet Pasha the
comprehensive exposition of his point of view, that I have put together
in the following pages.

Ismet Pasha, like Mr. Edison, is deaf; and possibly feels with that
great inventor that, “though it is uncomfortable when people insist on
making a spitoon of your ear, for the rest _it is all advantage_.” For
example, at dinner one can “get on with one’s thinking,” instead of
listening to the conversation. Ismet Pasha only “hears what he wants to
hear,” often a great advantage in diplomacy.

As to being content with the “working of the Conference,” he said, “we
are doing all in our power to make peace, but it is difficult for one
nation against all the other powers. Willingly or unwillingly, they
cannot see what our National Pact means to us; and that, as a proud
people, we cannot accept terms of peace which they would not think of
offering the Greeks and Bulgars. It is said that the Great Powers must
conciliate public opinion which hates and distrusts us as ‘barbarians,’
but we feel certain that the Powers could deal with ‘public opinion’ if
they so desired, and convince the whole world that we are now working by
civilised methods to become a free and independent nation. Instead of
facing the vital question of a ‘right to exist’ as a State, we feel that
much time has been wasted over details that do not need any discussion.
It is known, for example, that we are offering, what we have always
offered, _equal_ rights to Moslems and Christians; yet we are asked to
establish _in_equality by exempting Christians from military service.

“If ever the Powers consent to accept our point of view, it is
considered a great concession, and when we point out that our _whole_
demands have been reduced by us to the lowest minimum, they laugh;
imagining it is a ‘concession’ to give us back _one room_ in our own
house.

“For three years, Turkey has given proof that none can dispute of her
organising capacity, her great vitality, and her deep longing to
regenerate her country. We came here hoping and believing that the
plenipotentiaries would bear this in mind. They do not. They beg us to
‘trust’ them; but they treat us with the same caution, the same
_dis_trust, as they have always shown towards the old ‘decayed’ Turkey,
towards which, maybe, there _used to be_ some slight justification. Such
an attitude cannot produce satisfactory progress.”

“What are the chief obstacles to Peace?”

“Mosul—Finance—Judicial Capitulations—Reparations.

“We are only asking four milliard gold francs for reparations. That is a
small figure for a country that has been completely devastated, and it
takes no count of loss of life.

“Mosul was never captured by Great Britain, though they claim the right
of conquest. Their troops were a long way from Mosul when ours were
demobilised at the end of the war. They ‘captured’ it by ‘violating the
terms of the Armistice’; as they did at Constantinople, and as the
French did in Cilicia.

“The population of Mosul is Kurd and Turkish, with only a small Arab
minority. It must, therefore, belong to Turkey on all the principles by
which the Powers have determined the frontiers of Europe. This was
recognised, indeed, in the Sykes-Picot agreement, which admitted that
Mosul is _not_ a part of Mesopotamia.

“It was finally handed to England by the French Foreign Office; but M.
Clemenceau afterwards apologised that he had not previously ‘_known of
the oil there_.’ The Kurds of Mosul have nothing in common with the
Arabs; and naturally want to be united with their ‘brothers’ in
Anatolia. Why are we the only nation to whom the principle of racial
frontiers has been denied? By what kind of justice does an Arab
minority, probably smaller than one quarter of the population, give
England the right to annex Mosul!

“To insist upon our accepting ‘foreign judges,’ is an humiliating insult
to our Government that is altogether incompatible with National
Sovereignty. Such interference, and such an affront to the authority of
the State would be no less injurious to the interests of foreigners in
Turkey than to our own. It could not fail to provoke continual clashing
of interests, confusion, and friction between Turkish and foreign
administration of law, that would be fatal to commercial security _for
all alike_. Here again the Powers are still ‘building on sand.’

“As to finance, it is a serious difficulty for us; but no question of
mere money will ever separate us from England.

“I firmly believe that, when once the Powers can get rid of their old
prejudices, the traditional friendship will revive. England and Turkey,
surely, need each other; we need England and England needs us, if only
to pacify those Moslem people whom _England’s injustice to us_ has
roused to righteous anger against her.

“A strong Anglo-Turkish alliance would mean not only peace in the Near
East and for Islam; it means peace for the whole world.”

People have asked me “Why did Lausanne fail?”

I answer: “It did _not_ fail. It _would_ have been failure had Ismet
Pasha signed, at the pistol’s point, a treaty that could not be
ratified. He knew that the Assembly would never sign the terms offered
by the Powers; and, as I told Lord Curzon, he had to consult his
colleagues in Angora. It would hinder peace, not promote it, to sign
with no security for ratification.”

As Ismet said, “We have purchased our Anatolia with the blood and money
of her peasants. We can die, but we cannot betray them.”

                  *       *       *       *       *


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                             CHAPTER XXXIV

 TURKEY AND THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS—THE PARLIAMENT OF NATIONS MUST BE TRULY
                       IMPARTIAL AND INTERNATIONAL


FOR those of us who pinned their faith on the League of Nations, it is a
matter of the deepest regret that Turkey has lost her trust in the great
Parliament of All Nations, especially now that it could have played so
important a part in settling our differences at the Lausanne Conference.
It is not entirely the Turks’ fault; indeed, considering all things, one
can scarcely urge them to any other attitude.

To them, at least, the League must seem definitely anti-Islam, and (as
founder of the Lyceum Club ‘League of Nations Circle,’ of which Lady
Gladstone is president) I have continually endeavoured to impress upon
Lord Robert Cecil the danger of allowing such an idea to remain
uncontradicted, that it may spread more widely and be more firmly held.

Turkey never interfered with British property during the war, and
British merchants continued their business in Smyrna throughout the
hostilities. Yet we not only confiscated, but sold enemy property. In
one case, for example, the business of a man, brought up in England and
a pronounced Anglophil, was sold to a Greek for a quarter of its value,
and the money sequestered by the Government. Had the Bey even been a
traitor he should have been given the full value of his business, and
then expelled, instead of being driven to exist on money borrowed at an
exorbitant rate of interest. On the other hand, Ottoman “Christian”
property was freed from sequestration; a distinction between
“neighbours,” hardly consistent with the teaching of our faith.

The “pick-pocketing” habit of confiscating enemy property—Turkish,
German, or Austrian—is surely beneath an Empire with our reputation; and
the plea from France and Italy’s example does not strike one as a
dignified defence. As a matter of fact, France emphatically denies ever
having taken a penny from the Turks.

Is not such flagrant injustice an obvious case for the League’s
authority to intervene? When visiting the “League of Nations”
headquarters in Geneva the other day, Sir Eric Drummond asked me why
Turkey should be so suspicious of the League? I could only refer him to
the public speeches of our most responsible statesmen. When Mr. Lloyd
George hurled insults at Islam, it only meant one more item in the big
bill of Moslem grievances against England; when Lord Balfour and Lord
Robert Cecil speak in similar strains, Islam listens. While _they_
refuse justice and mercy, Turkey mistrusts the League.

Because the League stood aside, and left the Greeks in Smyrna, as
Britain refused discussion with Turkish emissaries, Mustapha Kemal was
driven to arms, which gave Turkey, indeed, the victory, but spread ruin
throughout Anatolia.

Should not a careful consideration for the _feelings_ of all nations be
an outstanding characteristic of the League, which is the expression of
the world-brotherhood? Yet it suggested that a man, a Mr. Pitt, should
be allowed to search the harems for enslaved Greeks and Armenians! An
incomprehensible insult that, if Turkey ever forgives, she cannot
forget. The Turks are a proud and aristocratic race, with venerable
traditions, which, if we will not understand, we should, at least,
respect. To them, home-life is a sealed and sacred book.

Why, again, was the preparation of a full report on “harems” entrusted
to a Roumanian poetess, rather than to such a woman as Halidé Hanoum, of
tried experience and world-wide reputation for liberal broadmindedness?
We have depended, in the past, chiefly on nursery governesses whose
exaggerations and misconceptions on this subject are invaluable to
sensational writers. Hence the sordid colouring for Western eyes thrown
on a system of delicate lights and shades and very complicated nuances.

The Greek and Armenian servants in Turkish harems would be themselves
the first to resent interference. For they are treated in Moslem homes
with an equality, consideration, and leniency no Christian mistress
would dream of permitting. They, often, practically control the
household, and are, indeed, sometimes given an unwise preference in the
Pasha’s affections. They hold the purse-strings, direct, advise, and
administer domestic affairs, as they also, so largely, manage the
commercial life of the country. In return, naturally, the Turk expects
absolute loyalty; and woe to those who refuse, or betray, it.

It is true, of course, that backstairs propaganda—from American Relief
Workers, among others—has been at work to misinform the League; and had
reliable information been available, those unfortunate mistakes would
never have been made.

Indeed, the honestly impartial head of its own Press department now
reports: “We have tested the real value of Greek and Armenian
propaganda, and sympathise with the Turk in consequence.” Such
repentance comes rather late in the day, but may even yet produce a
wiser policy.

It was one of the Fethi Bey’s many humiliating experiences, on his visit
to London, to see the harem misjudged by an ex-governess, and to read
the assertion of a lady from Boston that “beautiful Greek girls had to
disfigure themselves to prevent the Turks from stealing them!”
Statements that might have been treated with the contempt they deserve,
had they not been accorded such prominence by the Press.

On the other hand, one must acknowledge that the Turk’s attitude towards
his detractors is more lofty than practical. Pride forbids him to answer
accusations, or disseminate the truth; which he, as a fatalist, firmly
believes “must out”! They will, certainly, never hoist the propagandist
“on his own petard,” since, to their thinking, the man who accepts money
to defend a cause is no better than a “political prostitute.” They argue
that “he who works for me, must believe in me, as a true friend, eager
to help.” And for the moment, Europe has made them feel that “facts”
would avail them nothing—“whatever we do is wrong.”

In the East news spreads with accurate rapidity without the assistance
of newspapers; but the foreigner who needs chapter and verse for every
statement may be, to some extent, excused for suspecting their obstinate
reticence about statistics and exact figures. I should, myself, have
welcomed more information about a story I quite believe, but cannot
substantiate, that came from an Italian lady at Broussa. She said that
the Greeks burnt a Turkish prison, _with all the prisoners in it_, and,
“to her dying day she would never forget their awful screams,” but no
one will give me the least idea of how many prisoners were slaughtered.
I called on a Vali whose palace was burned to cinders before I had the
information. And I could discover no precise details, despite inquiry at
Angora, Constantinople, and Lausanne!

The Norwegian head of the Minorities Committee, a man given to wise and
just decisions, has said: “It is no use expecting Asiatics to be
Europeans. They have as much right to do things in their Asiatic way, as
we have to act like Europeans. There are standards of right and wrong,
against which neither may transgress, but for the rest, nothing can be
done.” He also agreed that to secure protection from a minority, you
must enforce loyalty to the majority. I told him the head of the
Armenian community had begged the Pope to see that they “were left to
the mercy” of the Turks, which _is_ merciful.

The League can really help Christians in Turkey by putting a stop to
pro-Christian propaganda, for which Armenians in Anatolia will have to
suffer.

There is so much that the League of one’s dream could do for Turkey, as
for all the peoples; and we criticise only from hope and desire of some
hastening in its approach to perfection, and the establishing of its
supreme authority. As Sir Eric Drummond pointed out, the high-handed and
retrograde attitude towards Eastern problems would not be possible were
Turkey represented on the council: as others have seen, that while the
so-called “enemy” peoples are unrepresented, the League cannot be truly
either impartial or international.

To secure equal justice for all, it must stand outside, and above,
divisions of race, creed or prejudice.

Nevertheless, we hope that Turkey will trust the “imperfect” League.
Maybe, after all, in dealing with Mosul, it would grant the plebiscite
which Lord Curzon declares is “impossible.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

It is not generally known why Colonel House chose Geneva, in preference
to Lausanne, as the seat of the League of Nations.... After long and
careful deliberation, which yet produced only indecision, I am told that
he asked his valet’s advice.

Joseph replied: “Geneva would be much better for your rheumatism!”

Once installed, however, Colonel House discovered another reason. At
Geneva, lived Josephine!


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                              CHAPTER XXXV

                 THE FUTURE—ABOVE ALL, A LASTING PEACE


WILL the future bring us peace; above all, a lasting peace? Though
nothing less is worth having, _we cannot have war_.

I saw M. Franklin-Bouillon in Paris and, though not perhaps in agreement
with all he did in Syria, I maintain that his work in Moudania deserved
thanks rather than criticism. He knows the Turks well, and affirms that
he would have made peace at Lausanne. He possibly might have done so,
but would it have been _lasting_ peace?

                  *       *       *       *       *

On my way back to London we cross the channel in a Handley-Page
Aeroplane. There is just time to prepare a conclusive answer to all
questions about the harem; for no matter how eager we are to proceed,
after six months’ study of the Angora movement, to more important
impressions, every newspaper correspondent asks about the harem.

Just as for those who, in the States; held me personally responsible for
our policy in Ireland, I stole from _Life_ a witty answer, compressed
into this dramatic “tabloid,” that “turned away American wrath”:

“_Pat_: Wouldn’t it be awful if England now gave us all we wanted?”

“_Mike_: Sure, and ’twould be like her to play us the dirty trick.”

In like manner, I prepared two shots to kill “harem” inquiries:—

_One_: “Why has the Turk only one wife, to-day?

“When four wives meant four tillers of the ground, there was ‘sense’ in
polygamy. It is ‘folly’ now they buy their dresses in Paris.”

_Two_: “Why are you always so early at the Mosque?” a pious man was
asked.

“As I have two wives, I leave home as soon as possible.”

The result was as I expected.

                  *       *       *       *       *

But what about the peace for which we all wait so anxiously?

What has the future in store for us? We must turn over a new page, and
find our way with great care, both sides first uttering their _mea
culpas_, with honest courage to learn the lesson of their mistakes.

Above all, may Lausanne learn the lesson of Versailles.

Which of the Big Four dared face _the real problems_ of Versailles? They
decided nothing, but, leading us into the pestilent zone of neutrality,
imposed a “Government by Committees” upon the world, which could not
work. Nature abhors neutrality, as she abhors a vacuum. And so it is in
politics.

On the other hand, however, we ask ourselves what nation was as badly
beaten as Turkey? Yet which of our late enemies has dared such open
defiance to the Allies? Not, however, in consequence of their victory
over the Greeks; but because she knows that, however much we may
pretend, none wants to fight; and no one can win the prize of
“Constantinople” save by conquest.

We had foolish visions of a new Byzantium, and thought that Greece would
reward our support by a “place on the Bosphorus.” But had the Powers
accepted this monstrous idea of a Greek Bosphorus, we should have found
it necessary to punish the arrogance of our _soi-disant_
fellow-burglars. The _timeo Danaos_, etc., of ancient Greece has still
its place in modern politics.

The Allies, however, knew they could not create a “neutral”
Constantinople, and had intended, before the Bolshevik regime, to
present the prize to Russia. A “committee” government of France, Italy
and England would mean English rule; and our blundering had been too
patent.

There remained no choice. Constantinople had to be given back to Turkey.
Though she was beaten in the Great War, which she has now forgotten, we
could not conquer her (single-handed, as we should find ourselves
to-day); and, therefore, “she has to have her own way.” The endeavour to
curb New Turkey by “neutral zones” would prove as useless as an attempt
to check the tides. It is only by an honest peace, carefully thought out
in every detail and planned for permanent security, that we can regain
our prestige in the Near East.

Perhaps, however, the greatest lesson we have still to learn from
Turkey’s victory was spoken in Gœthe’s lines:—

“He who would be just must have consideration for _all_ men.”

Or again, as it is written in the Turkish lines quoted by Professor
Browne:—

              Kam máta gawm un wa ma mátat makárimee pum
                Wa asha gawm un was hum fi ’n—nase amwátu!

        Many a people’s virtues survive when themselves are sped,
        And many a people linger, who are counted by man as dead!

Turkey is not dead, but born again out of the ruins of a Great
Civilisation. May there be peace again between East and West, that shall
bring peace to a world so greatly needing what it so little deserves!

My final words are of sincere congratulations to New Turkey, of warmest
thanks to all the friends who gave unending interest to my visit, of
pious hopes for peace.

At Lausanne, Ismet Pasha always gave the toast of “The British Empire
and King George,” and I responded with “Turkey and Mustapha Kemal
Pasha”; then we touched glasses, coupling the names. May “coming events
cast their shadows before.” _Inch Allah!_ and again, _Inch Allah!_


                                THE END


------------------------------------------------------------------------



                                 INDEX


 Abdul Halik Bey, the Vali of Smyrna, 44 _et seq_.

 Abdul Hamid, an exception, who reversed Turkish ideals, 91
   his terrible régime, 160, 191
   the ruthless, 210
   clever at “losing” Turks and forgetting them, 227
   vain hopes for his “Parliament,” 229
   his excellent cigarettes, 236
   his Turks used to be ordered about, 304
   reference to, 22-24, 54, 90, 118, 125, 156, 181, 182, 200, 207, 208,
      249

 Abdul Medjid, 153

 Abiloff, M., Azerbaijan, Ambassador for Caucasians, 202

 Ablutions, a religious rite, described, 83

 Acropolis, at Athens, difficulties of its ascent, 40, 41

 Adabazar, a Circassian tribe, 153

 Adalia, school closed, 194

 Adam, Mr. Adam, of British delegates, 307

 Adana, 125, 198

 Abdul Hak, Hamid, Turkish writer, for the people, 220
   acknowledged leader of the “New” literature, reconstructs learning
      and creates the soul of Turkey, 221

 Adnan Bey, Dr., Vice-President of the Assembly, 153, 186
   Angora High Commissioner in Constantinople, husband of Halidé Hanoum,
      206

 Adrianople, the Siege of, 288

 Æschylus, 41

 Afghanistan, Ambassador, 202, 203

 Afioum-Karahissar, where they finally leave train, 88, 102, 110

 Aga Aglou Ahmed Bey, Director of Angora Press, repeats that “whatever
    we do is wrong,” 226,
   admits the value of propaganda, 227, 228
   views on the Press, 231

 _Agamemnon_, on board the, 195

 Ahmet Emine, brilliant journalist, 142

 Aidin Railway, antiques found in laying the route, 62, 63

 Alascheir, once prosperous, 76, 77

 Albania, 294

 Albanians, wiped out, 23
   scheme to exclude, 169

 Albert Hall, 38

 Alcohol, its use and abuse, taught in schools, 216

 Alewites, 153

 Alfred and the cakes, 249

 Algeciras, and its assembly of fallen angels, 178

 Ali Fouad Pasha, general, President of “Rights of Roumelia and
    Anatolia,” largely the inspiration of the Assembly, 199
   commanding in the North, 224

 America and her churches as advertisers, 78
   anecdotes of her journalistic enterprise, 97, 98
   her two generations of Jews, 118
   approved as a “democracy,” 148
   should spread gospel of Rockefeller Institute against vermin and
      microbes, 264

 American, author will _not_ pretend to be, ix
   “nerves” in the war, 26
   author supposed to be American, but objects, 75, 76 _et passim_
   sings “Swannee River,” 53
   the first at Smyrna, his advice, 67
   the second at Smyrna, his advice, 67, 68
   scheme to rebuild Turkey _à la_ “States,” 85
   unwise propaganda for Christians 175
   Nonconformity and the Holy War, 239, 240
   idle talk of a new “home” for Armenians, 247
   their mischievous propaganda, 247
   characteristic, of arrogant obstinacy, 262, 263
   diplomacy not wanted in English Embassies, 291
   Near East relief workers in Anatolia, 203
   who are, unfortunately, too pro-Armenian, 203

 American Relief Worker to the rescue, 256 _et seq._
   his marvellous efficiency as a traveller, 256-258, 259 _et seq._
   joins author on journey to Constantinople, 259
   views on Greek barbarity, 259, 260
   recognises “personal” element in all relations with Turks, 260
   eager to know author’s view of American work in Turkey, 263-265
   his idea of service in “understanding,” 264
   linguist and jack-of-all-trades, 267, 268
   rudeness, a tactful cure for women’s nerves, 268
   back-stair influence on the League, 315

 Americans, do not know how to drink, 113
   delightful, _in spite_ of their Government, 114
   done fine work in education, 203, 204
   in Turkey, with the best intentions, interfere too much, 263-265
   may have “concessions,” if they keep their hands off architecture,
      269

 Anafarta, 182

 Anatolia, Greek atrocities in, 63
   sense of isolation, 72
   great hospitality, 72 _et seq._
   general condition of country, 74 _et seq._
   nowhere to house the poor people, 75
   children and soldiers of, 75
   people comforted by being _seen_, 77
   wonderful recovery of trade, 101
   a typical _han_ (inn), 110
   similarity of devastated towns, 125, 126
   bazaars and curio-merchants reviving their trade, 126
   the carriages and drivers of the country, 135
   people seem to have “walked out of the Bible,” 135
   excellent newspapers, 142, 144, 208
   primitive machinery, 144
   must be in at 5 o’clock sunset, 146
   accepted heavy taxation, 152
   song of her love for Roumelia, 153
   carpets and rugs from, 167
   the native music, 170
   refugees of, 186
   unfortunate influence of American relief workers against Turkey on
      behalf of Armenians, 203, 204
   but they have done fine work in education, 203, 204
   advantages of Anglo-French capital, 204
   retains old customs largely abandoned in Constantinople, 205
   true hospitality in a two-roomed cabin, 232, 233
   character of the people, 234
   everywhere maps of Asia Minor, 234
   their folk-songs, 238, 258
   cared for by Pope, 239
   must not grumble in Anatolia, 256
   need lessons in hygiene, 256-258
   peasants declare they do _not_ lack anything, 258
   a “casual” driver, 259 _et seq._
   strange method of caravan-driving, where one donkey leads a troop of
      camels, 260, 261
   colour of soil suggests rich veins of iron, 271, 272
   peasants accept low prices when told that times are bad, 275
   her folk-songs heard in Lausanne, 299, 300
   when it first became Moslem, 308
   being manœuvred into power of Helenes, 308
   purchased by blood of peasants, 312
   reference to, 46, 64, 112, 115, 125, 138, 166, 175, 180, 182, 199,
      206, 212, 245, 284, 288, 311
   _See_ “Angora”

 Andromache, 41

 Anglican scheme for union with Greek Church, 239, 240

 Angora, “the little Republic of the Mountains,” ix
   discourtesy to ambassadors from, 27
   no luxuries in, 32
   unknown to British, 72
   misunderstood in Angora, 125
   at last near at hand, 127
   first view of, 131
   somehow disappointing, 132
   atmosphere of brotherhood, 133, 134
   the town described, 134–135
   high rents, 139
   everyone reads the papers, 157, 158
   the real “New Turkey,” 139, 140
   a primitive printing works, 144
   the Hadji Baïram “quarter,” 144
   not many “sights,” except hospitals, schools and gardens, 145, 146
   serious housing problem, 146
   how we exaggerate here, 147
   all men proud of their country, 148
   will Angora or Constantinople be capital of the new State, 149
   Holy Angora, 168
   Treaty signed here with France, 177
   its foreign personalities, 202 _et seq._
   Germans have no influence, 202
   but are conciliating Turks in Germany, 202
   surprising progress, especially in hospitals, 215, 216
   former “Director of its Press,” 218
   present “Director of its Press,” 226
   its famous Mosque of Hadgi Baïram, 223
   carries one back to centuries before Christ, 226
   where do all the people live? 226
   dangers of the bad roads, 232
   a “difficult” house to find—“near the pump,” 236
   the Christian Colony, 245-247
   representative in Rome, 250
   admirable organisation of Justice by Djelaleddine Arif Bey, 251, 252
   no tips, no haggling over prices, 286
   a _woman_ sent out to Angora by French Government, 291
   has taken from Constantinople the heart and spirit of Turkey, 295,
      296
   naturally touching, 304
   reference to, 30, 55, 58, 66-68, 88, 105, 108, 120, 121, 156, 160,
      168, 178, 205-207, 228, 239, 242, 244, 273 _et passim_

 Antigone, 41

 Antoine, who staged some of Pierre Loti’s tales, anecdote of, 18

 Arabia, words from the Turkish literature, 59, 219, 250

 Arabs, scheme to exclude, 169, 222, 306
   minority in Mosul, 311

 Arden, Forest of, 124

 Aristotle, 41

 Armenian choir regret their old “good times” with Turks, 236-238
   orphans and Father Babadjanian 246, 247
   servants in harems, well treated and contented, 315

 Armenians, “under Papal protection,” 52
   attempt of girls to escape, 64, 65
   in America, 78
   hard to realise they are Christians, 134
   in Cilicia, 153
   shawls, 171
   orphans, 211
   turn to Russia, 221
   feel “at home” in Turkey, 237
   want to be left alone, 238
   call Turkey their “home,” 247
   have long filled their pockets out of the Turks, 275
   at Lausanne, 299
   reference to, 222, 238, 241

 Armistice, 182

 “Army of Occupation,” what it means, 30

 Army of Nationalists, described, 224, 225
   increased from 10,000 men to 400,000, with 250 big guns, etc., 224
   detailed statistics and character of Staff, 225

 Asia Minor, quite safe, 57
   and Orthodox Church, 308
   map to be seen everywhere in Anatolia, 234
   reference to, 25, 139, 197, 204, 212, 244

 Asiatics, not inferiors, 59

 Asquith, Mr., and his son, 77

 Astor, Lady, effect on other women, of her success in Parliament, 291

 Athens, visited, 36 _et seq._
   its churches, 39, 124, 221

 _Athenæum_, on blonde Turks, 228

 Augustus, his “comfortable” period, 226

 Austerlitz, 166

 Australian mothers, their gratitude for “the truth” about Turkey, 208,
    280

 Aviation ground, reorganised, 101
   women aviators, 102

 Azerbaijan, ambassador, 202


 Babadjanian, in charge of Armenian orphans, 246, 247

 Bagdad, and her woman Professor, 125, 190

 Balfour, Lord, unfortunate scorn of Turkey, 314

 Balkan War, 24, 193, 210

 Barrère, M., 299

 Beaconsfield, Lord, 141

 Bedford College open to Turkish women medical students, 211

 Békir Sami Bey, Ambassador from Angora and the Soviets, 27

 Benedict XV., Pope, beautiful bust of, 242
   killed by strain of war, 244

 Benghazi, 182

 Berlin, 25, 111

 Beyrout, 182, 211

 Bieberstein, Marshall von, German diplomat at Constantinople, and his
    “human” retriever, 24

 Bilidjik, station for “the express,” 88, 255, 259

 Bismarck, 305

 Bitlis, 182

 “Black” Sultan, the, 227

 Boghetti, who brought fruit, 232

 Bolshevism, compared with Moslem, 90
   has “no” influence in Turkey, 150, 151
   in spite of their magnificent Embassy, 151
   and their genuine friendship, 151
   at Lausanne, 299

 Bosphorus, 251

 Boston lady, her insulting lies about life in harem, 315

 Briand, M., attack on Lloyd George, 50
   his famous Note, 107
   his pleasant compliment, 116

 British Museum, 63
   naval officer at Smyrna, 67
   propaganda, 116

 Broussa, ancient capital of Turkey, fine hospital at, 215, 216
   headmistress at College of, misses the “Christian” pupils, 217
   and the comfort of its Hotel Brotte, 272
   unexpected visit to, 273 _et seq._
   governor’s house burnt to cinders, 273
   town had been saved by a brigand, 273
   influx of Jews, 274
   splendid bathing, 274
   silk and tobacco factories, 274, 275
   its bazaar, its Mosque, and the letter-writer, 276
   true atmosphere of Islam, 276 _et seq._
   a minaret and the famous Green Mosque, 277-279
   school-house and hospital, 282, 283
   reference to, 163, 258, 259, 316

 Browne, Prof. E. G., hope that he will translate some of the Turkish
    books on Nationalism, 217, 218
   his perfect knowledge of language, 218
   his praise of the author, 218
   quoted, 214, 320

 Brutus, his wife, 124

 Bryce, Lord, his opinion enough to crush all argument, a tale of
    Western arrogance, 262, 263

 Bucharest, 62

 Bulgarians, now friends again, 175
   more respected than Turks, 129, 310

 Burns, Mrs. John, anecdote of her dignity, 133

 Byron, Lord, _his_ Greece and his _Maid of Athens_, 41

 Byzantine Hippodrome in Constantinople, 27, 308


 Cadem Haïr, a maid, whose mistress buys her trousseau, 189

 Caliphat, the sacred office, 90

 Calthorpe, Admiral, and the Armistice 193
   hears tribute to English honour, 195, 227

 Calthorpe, 227

 Camerad Areloff, Soviet Ambassador in Angora, 152
   no influence over Pasha, 169, 202

 Canada, 280

 Capitulations, unjudicial, incompatible with national sovereignty,
    would be also injurious to foreigners, 117, 311
   naturally “desired” by foreigners, 275

 Caracol, the (or lock-up), of Smyrna, 52

 Caravan, in charge of a donkey, 260, 261

 Carl Marx, 156, 162

 Carlyle on Mahomet, 22

 Carpet-factory visited, 100, 101

 Catholic, what the word now means in Turkey, 52, 63
   happy in Turkey, 241

 Caucasian Confederation, 182, 202, 224

 Cecil, Lord Robert; quaint thoughts of him in Anatolia, 105
   impossible scheme to unite Anglicans and Greek Church, 106, 108
   should see that “League” does not appear anti-Islam, 50, 313, 314.

 Cemetery, like a field of poppies, 101

 Ceretti, Monsignor, Paris Papal Nonce, memories of Pope as a young man,
    242, 243

 Chamber of Deputies, the French, 154

 “Chapel of Bones” in Malta, 31

 Cheik (once Professor of Arabic at Oxford) joins author in her journey,
    69 _et seq._
   a delightful travelling companion 71 _et seq._
   his appearance described, 71
   his generous kindness, 80
   his philosophy, 81, 82
   talks on politics, 90, 91
   must educate his sons in Germany, not England, 93
   reference to, 73, 75, 95, 103, 105, 112, 121, 133

 Cheik, the; our “troubles” will make history, 80, 81, 102
   talk on religion and the Koran, 106, 107
   an excellent housewife, 110, 111
   claims that Turks are “clean,” 269
   reference to, 73, 75, 95, 103, 105, 112, 121, 133

 Cheik-ul-Islam, called in to formally depose Khalif, 199, 200
   compared to Abdul Hamid’s “Cheik,” 200

 Chemsi Effendi, schoolmaster in Salonika, 180

 Cheriat laws are not run on a “cash basis,” 251, 269, 270

 Chester, Mr., of the U.S., and sky-scrapers, 117, 118

 Child Observer, the, or Boy Scout, from America, 300
   his “little kindness” to Ismet Pasha, 300

 China, 58, 234

 Chislehurst, where Kemal Pasha’s future wife was educated, 190

 Chivalry, fine, but inconvenient sometimes, 56 _et seq._

 Choate, Joseph, stern rebuke of Baron Marshall von Bieberstein, 301,
    302

 Christ in Koran, 22
   venerated by Turks, 92

 Christian minorities to be looked after by M. Kemal, 238
   must be loyal, 247
   only Turks can “protect,” 237, 238

 Christian prayer for Turkey and the Pasha, 237

 Christians claim exemption from military service, 160
   why they have left Anatolia, 175, 176
   happy at school with the Moslems, 211
   to be exempt from military service, 213
   have always lived in harmony with the Turks, 213

 Churches, the; their proper function, 108, 109

 Cilicia, 120, 153, 224

 Circassian tribes, 153

 Clapham, 30

 Clemenceau, Mons., bigger man than Napoleon, 165, 166
   did not know of oil in Mosul, 311

 Committee of Union and Progress, 195, 222
   its mistakes, 173

 Compton, Mr., administers relief in Anatolia, 203

 “Conceited ass” a leader of camels, 260, 261

 Constant, Mons., French Ambassador at Constantinople, 24

 Constantine, of Greece, afraid of air-raids, 94, 95
   tale of an “interview” with, 97, 98, 107

 Constantinople, its avenue of Pierre Loti, 20
   mass meeting in the Byzantine Hippodrome, 27
   its “dangerous” distractions, 29 _et seq._
   fear of its being handed to Russia, 90
   will not tolerate a “Greek” Patriarch, 107, 108
   the Hippodrome made in Germany, 118
   some impressions of its bazaar, 126
   will it be capital of new State? 149
   Parliament seized by English, 155
   present position and prospects, 176
   reforms interrupted by the war, 187
   the newspaper called _Illeri_, or _Forwards_, 229
   representative in Rome, 250
   ceremony of the Mouharrem, 250, 251
   its relics of Byzantium, 274
   eager for tips, sharp contrast to the Anatolians, 285, 286
   fixed tariff required for tips and cabs, 286
   compensations in luxury, 286
   Armenian concert interrupted by dogs, 294, 295
   street-feuds among dogs, who unite against “alien” Christians, 294,
      295
   still the sublime but no longer the Turkey of the Turks, which is
      Angora, 295, 296
   the holy man of the Tekka, 296, 297
   how correspondents “hash up” their news, 303
   Ottoman rule in, 308
   cannot be neutral, and so intended for Russia, 319
   government by committee would mean English rule, 320
   must be given back to Turkey, 320
   reference to, 23, 26, 108, 125, 153, 163, 179, 180, 182, 193. 203,
      206, 220, 224, 239, 244, 252, 259, 263, 273, 284, 288, 307, 309,
      311

 Conversation without words, 138

 Cook, Messrs. Thomas, & Co., Egypt, Ltd., 19, 20

 Crowday, Dame Rachel, at the League, 112

 Cuba, 49

 Curzon, Lord, knows the East, 143
   firm, but not insulting, 178
   views on the Assembly, 193
   books on the East, 227
   understands Ismet Pasha, 287
   knows the subject, and his own mind; has full powers, 289
   for him the right way is not the easy way, 290
   compliments the author, 291
   his duel with Ismet Pasha, 197, 299
   preparing his “part,” 301
   a pleasure to meet, 303
   unfortunate severity and stiffness of manner in public, 303
   really interested in Turks and understands them, 303, 304
   might be more himself with Ismet Pasha, 303
   cannot ignore “public opinion” in the West, still based on our
      conception of old Turkey, 304
   said of Ismet Pasha, “I like the little man,” 305
   naturally told nothing, but asked questions, 305
   guesses at his policy, 306
   hampered by association with the Coalition, 306
   pity he cannot deal more directly with Turks, 306
   his public speeches, 306
   refuses to recognise religious tolerance of Turks, 309
   try to force on Turkey what they would not offer to Greeks or
      Bulgars, 310
   could deal with “public opinion” if he really wished to, 310
   always seems to distrust Turks, 310
   reference to, 27, 299, 317

 Cyprus, 24

 Czar Ferdinand, of Bulgaria, at Marienbad, 129


 Damascus, 182

 Dames de Nazareth, the, at Beyrout, converted to school, 211

 Dane at Smyrna, his advice, 67

 Dardanelles, the, 182, 224

 Daudet, his hero and his goal, 157

 Deacoville, 85, 88

 de Brock, Admiral, stationed outside Smyrna, 63

 de C——, Mrs., widow of Minister in Teheran, 62 _et seq._
   her advice, 68
   account of fire in Smyrna, 73, 74

 Democracy may be “perfect” in the East, 162

 Dervishes, the “contemplative” and the “dancing”: fascination of their
    rhythms, 281
   their “progressive” representative, 156

 Dersim, its aged Deputy, 155, 156

 Diab, Deputy for Dersim, ninety years old, 155, 156

 Diarbékir, 139, 234

 Diogenes, 77

 Diplomacy must be taken up when you are twenty-one, not later, 292

 Disraeli, grateful protector of Turks, 241

 Divans, early Turkish poems, 219

 Djavid Bey, 138, 306

 Djelaleddine Arif Bey, represents Angora in Rome, 44, 250
   his escape to Angora, 251
   strongly against Capitulations, and his admirable organisation of
      justice, 251, 252
   on Palestine, 252

 Djellal Noury Bey, editor of the _Illeri_, and the National Pact,
    229-231
   used to edit a French paper, 230

 Djémal Pasha, former Minister of Marines, as interpreter, 98, 208, 249,
    250
   the late, 235

 Dogs lack the dignity of the East, 98

 Drake, 249

 Drummond, Sir Eric, asks why Turks suspect the League, 314
   wants Turkey to be on Council of League, 317

 “Drunken Englishman, The,” a popular game in Naples, 113

 Dublin, degree given to Turkish woman medical student, 211

 Dumas, and his interview with Gregory XVI., 240

 Durdje, a Circassian tribe, 153

 Dutch parson at Smyrna, his advice, 67

 Dutchman who ought to write a book, 53
   trusts Turks, 68
   tale of how Greeks respect Turkish army, 274


 East, Sir Alfred, on painting an Eastern sunset, 297

 École Normale Supérieure de Sèvres, school attended by author, 218

 Edison, a tale of his youth, 181
   on being deaf, 309

 Edward VII. and Pierre Loti, 19
   at Marienbad, 129, 130

 Egypt, 59, 116, 148, 168

 Eliot, George, her words are part of the treasure England has for
    mankind, 214

 Ellison, Grace, her mission for peace, ix, x
   her friendship with Pierre Loti, 17 _et seq._
   early admiration of Gladstone, 22
   first personal impressions of the Revolution, 23
   her “Turkish sister,” 23-25
   at Stamboul, 24
   her “An Englishwoman in a Turkish Harem,” 24
   risks of friendship for Turkey, 25
   invited to Angora, 28
   some of her views on women, 29 _et seq._
   her search for Union Jack, 34 _et seq._
   her “defence” of England, 35, 39, 42
   her impressions of Athens, 36 _et seq._
   on the “modern” Greek financier, 36 _et seq._
   and the Hellenes, 38 _et seq._
   on imperialism for Greece, 40
   on Smyrna, 43 _et seq._
   her first impressions of devastations, 43
   the first “spinster” to enter Turkey, 44
   her battles with the flies, 47, 48
   distrust of financiers who exploit Turkey, 50, 51
   known as “niece” of Lloyd George, 50, 51
   refuses “control” from English chivalry, 54 _et seq._
   could meet bullying better than kindness, 55
   always “trusts” Turks, 56
   entirely unsupported by Government or the Press, 58
   “childhood” beginnings of her keen interest in the East, 58, 59
   nearly blown up among ruins of Smyrna, 61
   actually ready to start for Angora, 66
   farewell gifts and advice, 67-69
   advice and gifts from men of all nations at Smyrna, 67-69
   her “answer” to them all, 69
   her delightful companion, the learned Cheik, 69 _et seq._
   memories of England, 69, 70
   her eventful journey to Angora, 71 _et seq._
   first impressions of Anatolia, 72 _et seq._
   once more called an “American,” but objects, 75, 76
   experience of life in trains, 77 _et seq._
   a night in the open, 80, 81
   not a true Eastern, 82
   a journey on foot, 85 _et seq._
   addresses public meeting at Ouchak, 94 _et seq._
   does not regret discomfort, 94
   reasons for visit to Angora explained, 95
   must not have war, 95
   demands “friendship” between Turkey and Great Britain, 96
   strange ways of her Turkish lady’s-maid, 98
   the terror of travelling in a luggage train, 104 _et seq._
   refuses to stay in train 109, 110
   once more taken for American, 114
   her aims and work, 119
   making her toilette in the train 122, 123
   her “Turkish Woman’s Impressions of Europe,” 124
   disappointed at _first_ impressions of Angora, 132
   visits newspaper office and printing works, 144
   her “guide” in Angora, 144 _et seq._
   what to sketch in Angora, 145
   once more “why” an American, 148
   sort of “father confessor” to beloved new nation, 148
   impressions of Assembly, 148 _et seq._
   talks with Mustapha Kemal, 159 _et seq._
   at the Pasha’s own house, 163 _et seq._
   curiously like M. Kemal, 170
   her interview with M. Kemal, 174 _et seq._
   what it cost her to reach Angora, 183
   views and anecdotes of harem life, 184-191
   views on “women,” 185
   makes friends with Ministers of the Assembly, 192 _et seq._
   hopes they will be ready to learn from Europe, 198
   renews her friendship with Halidé Hanoum, 205 _et seq._
   messages to John Masefield and from Australian mothers, 208
   her own “best way” of helping national Turkey, 214
   still “more to do” in Angora, 215
   visits a Lycée for Girls, 215, 216
   interesting Preface to her “Englishwoman in a Turkish Harem,” by
      Prof. Browne, 218
   proud pupil of École Normale Supérieure de Sèvres, 218
   organised meetings against help to Czarist Russia, 220, 221
   faith the same for all men, 223
   indiscreet questions about the army, 224, 225
   final impressions of Angora, 226 _et seq._
   her ideas of propaganda, 228
   she is half-East, half-West, 228
   prefers hard work to peroxide and henna, 228
   approves the National Pact, 229-231
   enjoys a picnic and a good dinner, 231, 232
   a poor shot, 231
   nearly suffocated by fumes from mangal, 232
   visits a wayside cabin, 232, 233
   studying the map, 234
   talk at a “supper-party” given by an Anglophobian, 235-238
   her Turkish sister again, 238
   impressions of Rome and the Pope, 239 _et seq._
   describes the Pasha to the Pope, 243, 244
   visits Armenian orphans, 246, 247
   on diplomats in Rome, 249 _et seq._
   impressions of several Khalifs, 249, 250
   tale of Alfred and the cakes, _and_ of the Suffragettes to Prince
      Youssouff Zeddine, 249, 250
   sees a celebration of the Mouharrem, 250, 251
   leaves Angora in the snow, 254 _et seq._
   dangerous drives in a yaili, 254 _et seq._, 259 _et seq._
   a night “in the open” saved by American efficiency, 256-258
   tale of mutual ignorance between English and Americans, 260
   “falls in love” with an ass! 260, 261
   thinks, on the whole, Americans do more harm than good in Turkey,
      263-265
   judge a nation by its “gods” and learn “humanity” from Islam, 265
   attack on Puritanism towards women, whom all Turks honour and
      respect, 265, 266
   Turks too resigned while our dollar-race drenches the world in blood,
      266
   life in primitive times, 268 _et seq._
     by all means let us play at schemes for rebuilding the world, but
        leave all the “old bits,” 269
   Broussa, and the first chance of brushing one’s hair, 272
   tale of letter-writing for a _Poilu_, 276
   climbing a minaret, 277
   visiting Loti’s Green Mosque, 278, 279
   on board a cockle-shell of a boat, cheered by photograph of Gladys
      Cooper 283, 284
   her “harmless” mission to make England a little better understood,
      284
   impressions of Constantinople, 285 _et seq._
   too much heart to be English, 285
   her Swan-Song of what she has proved women can do, 291-293
   defence of her “Disadvantages of Being a Woman,” 292
   only trusted at the Front, when men thought she was French, 292, 293
   more at home in French Embassies than English, 293
   four Christmas Days in Turkey, 293-295
   danger of being too cosmopolitan, 294
   holds on to Faith, because War has taken away everything else, 295
   anger with jazz bands, 295
   first woman admitted in Tekké at Constantinople, 296
   at Lausanne, 298 _et seq._
   strange feeling of being in a neutral country, 298
   severe criticism of journalists at Lausanne, 301-303
   helps to make Lord Curzon understand, 304
   haunted at Lausanne by memories of Angora, 306
   tries to divide time between Turks and British, 307
   obtains full explanation of Turkish policy at Lausanne, 309-312
   views on the League of Nations, 313 _et seq._
   could never obtain statistics about Greek atrocities, 316
   hopes for the future, 318 to the end
   over the Channel in an aeroplane, 318
   held responsible in the States for Irish policy, 318
   witty answers that turn away wrath, 318
   congratulations and thanks to New Turkey, 320

 England, memories of, 69, 70

 English, the; once welcomed, now distrusted, ix
   idle policy in Turkey, 25
   hated by Greeks, 39
   will be soon welcomed again in Turkey, 49, 50
   ignorance of Young Turkey, of Angora, and of the Nationalists, 72
   humour unlike the French, 124
   will now take bribes, 142
   our policy will “come right,” 144
   seized Turkish parliament in Constantinople, 155
   will again be friends with Turks, 174, 178
   generous welcome to Turks in England, 211
   Taine’s judgment of them quoted, 214
   the best real “education,” 218
   stupid ignorance of the Khalif’s supreme duty towards Holy Relics,
      219
   shameful admiration for Russia of the Czars, 220, 221
   close a “Nationalist” club, 222
   whole “Press” is anti-Islam, 231
   must lead attitude of the world towards Turkey, 239
   why should we interfere? 263 _et seq._
   much to learn from the East in pity and humanity, 265
   cruel Puritanism followed by bloodshed in race for dollars, 265, 266
   their injustice to Turks entirely due to their being misled by Greek
      and Armenian dragomen, 280
   witty story to illustrate our national habit of not listening, 290
   public opinion still based on conception of “old” Turkey, 304
   our Empire founded on trust, 306
   people in vain seek for confidence from the Government, 306
   captured Mosul by violating Armistice, 311
   need friendship of Turks, as Turks need English friendship, 312
   should have been above pick-pocketing habit of confiscating enemy
      property, 314
   can only regain prestige by honest peace, 320

 “Englishwoman in a Turkish Harem, An,” by Grace Ellison, 24
   appreciation by Prof. Browne, 218

 Envichéir, and its primitive inn, 268

 Enver Pasha, evil influence, 25, 92, 98

 Erki-Chéir, where General Trécoupis was in captivity, 108
   picturesque café, 117
   flourishing town, 125
   munition-making replaced art, 127
   reference to, 123, 129, 254

 Europe, will she ever realise? 147, 148


 Faith, the same for all men, 223

 Falkenhayn, General, whose methods disgusted M. Kemal, 182

 Falstaff, 124

 Fanar to be separated from Orthodox Church, 308

 Fatma, 189

 Ferid Bey, Mme.; _see_ “Mufidé Hanoum”

 Feszi Bey, Minister of Public Works, 198
   author’s host at Angora, 137 _et seq._
   his unfailing courtesy, 138, 139, 141-143
   appearance and business energy, 139
   alarmed at idea of receiving an Englishwoman, 170
   his private business, 199
   delight in map, 234

 Fethi Bey, Minister of the Interior and Ambassador from Angora; his
    praise of England, 27, 28
   his “philosophy,” 32, 33
   memories of London, 162
   a Minister at thirty-two, 192
   his life and character, well known in England, Minister of Interior,
      195-197
   claims Jerusalem for the Turks, who honour Christ, rather than for
      Jews, 252, 253
   laughs at our English pride of family, 270
   humiliated in London by hearing the harem life misrepresented, 315
   reference to, 35, 125, 132, 137, 143, 154, 159, 166, 178, 285

 Flies in Athens, 37
   have real “freedom” in Turkey, 47 _et seq._
   the end of, 79

 France, why she gave up Cilicia, 120
   the Treaty with, 177
   value of her political support, 194
   not the Power to which Turkey looks for help, 203
   ready to give a criminal, _or_ a genius, his chance, 293
   denies that she has taken a penny from Turks, 314
   reference to, 74
   _See also_ “French”

 Frank Street in Smyrna, 62

 Franklin-Bouillon, M., advises friendship with England, 121
   says he could have made peace at Lausanne, 318

 Freedom of the Straits must be _real_ freedom, 176-178

 French influence in the Near East, 20
   unsuspicious, 25, 26
   their interests in Syria, 114, 115
   Revolution studied by M. Kemal, 181
   their influence has played “too large a part” in Turkey, 214
   method of typhoid-inoculation, 215
   losing the enthusiasm of the Turks, 228
   violated Armistice in Cilicia, 311

 Frenchman at Smyrna, his advice, 68

 Friendship between Turkey and Great Britain essential to both, 96

 Fouzouli, earliest writer of love-poetry in Turkish, 219

 Front, at the, 96


 Gabriel Effendi Nouradunghian, an Armenian, chosen by Turks as Minister
    of Foreign Affairs, 221

 Ghazal, that is, a love song, 219

 Gallipoli, 182

 Gasparri Cardinal; his views on Turkey, 148
   his character, 252

 Geneva and the League, 112, 317
   cathedral locked, 279

 Genoa, 300

 George V., the “Moslem” King, 86

 Georgian Circassian slaves, 190

 Georgians at Lausanne, 299

 Gerbervilliers, 95

 Gentleman: Turkish ambition to be one, ix, x

 Germans have no influence, 202
   but are conciliating Turks in Germany, 24, 202
   education vitiated by punishments, 218
   a trench, 95
   Soviets, 306

 Germany began to tamper with Nationalist independence and was thrown
    off, 25, 195, 271

 Gladstone, reaction against influence of, 22, 78, 95, 141
   Lady, and the Lyceum Club League Circle, 313

 Gladys Cooper, her photograph in a ship’s cabin, Queen of Beauty among
    the ladies of the Levant, 284

 Goethe quoted, 143, 320

 Gordon, General, author’s father’s praise of, 22, 207, 249

 Goschen, Sir Edward, and Edward VII., 129, 130

 Grand National Assembly, the parliament of Nationalist Turkey, 135
   description of building and position, 148
   the band in gardens of, 152
   form of proceedings, 153-155
   evidence of democracy, 154
   different personalities, 155 _et seq._
   predominance of military uniforms, 156
   rather “difficult” variety of culture among Deputies, 156, 157
   false reports at Lausanne of its corruption, 157
   is _really_ national, 157
   inspires confidence, 158
   one chamber the ideal form of government, 162
   opposition at present has little weight, 169, 170
   its attitude explained by M. Kemal, 174
   a Cabinet of young men, 192
   its three great men, 192 _et seq._
   Cabinet and Prime Minister independent, 192
   Ministers are Heads of Departments, 192
   real authority rests with the whole Assembly, 192
   Lord Curzon does not think system would work for a stable State, 193
   difference in knowledge and culture between Deputies, 198
   Cabinet and less-known Ministers, 198 _et seq._
   difficulties in the future foreseen, 200
   has achieved permanent success, 228, 229
   the restaurant provided by a professor, 235
   a Western atmosphere, 238
   deserves congratulations from the Mother of Parliaments, 305
   reference to, 146, 247

 Grand Tchelebi, progressive representative of Dancing Dervishes, 156

 Great Britain breaks her faith with Turkey, 90, 91
   bitterness against, 95

 Greater Greece, greater than Greeks can sustain, 21

 Greek Patriarch supported by Sultans, 308

 Greek Pope, the, 39

 Greek, moneylenders, 36 _et seq._
   the business men of Turkey, 49
   atrocities in Smyrna, 26, 60
   to enslave Turks, 27
   hate Lloyd George, 39
   barbarism in Anatolia, 63
   ungrateful conduct of refugees, 63
   anecdote of cruelty, 73, 74
   other examples, 74
   Greeks in America, 78
   devastations worse than the “German,” 79
   burning of trains, 94
   their dream of Empire, 107, 221
   largely victims of Big Powers, 161
   we cannot forget their atrocities, 208
   report of them by Halidé Hanoum, 212, 213
   Church, 245
   further evidence of devastations on return journey, danger of
      American relief worker, 260
   Ottoman Greeks weep when their compatriots burn Broussa, 273
   run away from a field of poppies, which they mistake for Turkish
      soldiers, 274
   have long filled their pockets out of the Turks, 275
   have always misled the English about the Nationalists, 280
   their “victims” in hospital, 282, 283
   more respected by the Powers than the Turks, 310
   servants in Turkish harems, well treated and contented, 315
   statements about, by an Italian lady at Broussa, 316
   foolish vision of a place on the Bosphorus, 319
   reference to, 52, 222, 241, 244

 Green Mosque at Broussa made famous by Pierre Loti, 20, 278, 279

 Gregory XVI. interviewed by Dumas, 240

 Guests, how they should “direct” their hosts in Anatolia, 138

 Gunhani, where railway line is cut, 79, 85
   wonderful railway bridge, 88


 Hadji Baïram, a “quarter” of Angora, 144
   its mosque, 223

 Hague, Second Conference, a dramatic moment, 301, 302

 HAÏDAR Bey from Vannes, the “old brigand” who buys rugs and carpets for
    Colonel Mougin, 235-238
   sworn never to speak to Englishman, but arranges supper-party for
      author, 236-238
   reference to, 88, 121

 Hakki Pasha, Grand Vizier, quoted, 25

 Halidé Edib Hanoum, one of the finest women in Turkey, 92
   the Jeanne d’Arc of Turkey, 102
   never unveils her hair, 138
   wanted in “Assembly,” 157
   quoted, 184
   character, life, and opinions, 205 _et seq._
   respected everywhere, wanted in the Assembly, 205, 210
   now an enemy to England but ready to love us again, 205
   manner and appearance, 206, 207
   translates from the American, 207
   her work and views on freedom for women, 209 _et seq._
   Chief Inspector of Schools, an organiser of education programme, 209
   retains the “veil” for its “Nationalist” significance, 210
   has prepared report of Greek devastations, 212, 213
   pessimistic about Conference, 213
   peace but _not_ dishonour, 213
   Jeanne d’Arc of Turkey, 214
   the greatest woman of the “New” literature, 222
   her remarkable “Nouveau Touran,” 222
   member of the “Turc Odjagui,” 222
   should have been invited to report on harems, 314, 315
   reference to, 153, 184, 186, 204, 227, 232, 233

 Hamdoullah Soubhi Bey, eloquent speaker for women, 185
   character and opinions, 233, 234
   eloquent against harem, 233, 234
   not lenient to Greeks, 234
   can trace Turkish civilisation over the world, 234
   simple tastes, and not superstitious, 235
   founder of the “Turc Odjagui,” _q.v._, 222, 223

 Hamid Bey, 306

 _Hamidieh_, the, in the Balkan War, 193

 Hamilton, Lady, _did_ influence politics, 290

 Harem, misunderstood, 26
   provides “real” safety, 30
   discussed with M. Kemal, 184-186
   descriptions and anecdotes, his own choice, 187-191
   not invented by Prophet, introduced in conquest of Byzantium, 190
   investigated by the League, 314
   formerly described by nursery governesses, 315
   Christian servants well treated and contented, 315
   a tabloid reply to criticism, 318, 319

 Harrington, General; his views on Turkey and Lausanne, 286, 287
   his fine work at Moudania, 287
   praise of Refet Pasha, 287, 288
   and other Turks, 281, 282
   reference to, 25, 120

 Hassan Fehmi Bey, Minister of Finance, 198

 Hedjaz, sacred city, 250

 Helen of Troy, 38

 Henderson, Arthur, 156

 Henderson, Neville, British Chargé d’Affaires at Constantinople,
    popular in Turkey, though not pro-Turk, 293

 Herbert, Colonel Aubrey, authority on Near East, 128

 Hikmet Bey, Captain, aide-de-camp to the French colonel, 134, 305

 Hindenberg, 182

 Hodja, living in oak tree, 77

 Hodjas, their reactionary influence, 156
   their powers limited, 161
   responsible for Turkey’s long sleep, 271
   misinterpret Koran, 230

 Homer, 41

 Horses, agreeable neighbours, 110

 Hospitals, greatly advanced in recent years, 215, 216

 House, Colonel; why he chose Geneva for seat of the League 317

 Hussein Djahid, brilliant journalist, 142, 143
   edits _Tanine_, 208, 209
   dances to warm his feet, 35, 300

 Hussein Raghib Bey, Prof., Chargé d’Affaires in Paris; his account of
    Nationalist literary revival, 218-223
   his “Story of Nationalism,” directed against any “party” policy, 222
   a true internationalist, 223
   not happy in Europe, away from Angora, 219, 264

 Hygiene needed in Anatolia 256, 257

 “Hymn of Independence,” sung by all Moslems, 238


 Idol that was a fountain, 18

 _Illeri_ (or Forwards), a newspaper in Constantinople, 229

 Imbrie, American commercial attaché, to protect “concessions” and
    organise relief, 203
   lives in railway salon, 203

 Imperial Ottoman Bank now the Bank of Turkey, 204
   a bureau of general information, 204
   the Governor-General of, 238
   Italian director, 237
   reference to, 137, 231, 295

 Incivility, does not “pay” in diplomacy, 27

 India, 25, 58, 59 90, 116, 263

 In-Enus, some impressions of the battle, 183, 197, 307

 International Red Cross, 299

 _Iron Duke_, H.M.S., outside Smyrna, 63

 Islam, word means obedience, the reverse of Bolshevism, 90

 Ispahan, roses of, 20

 Israel has its place in Islam, 92

 Ismet Pasha; his duel with Lord Curzon, 197, 299
   understands Lord Curzon, 287
   public taught to laugh at his pleasantries, 301
   “official” treatment from Lord Curzon, 303
   depressed by fears he has not done enough for Turkey, 305
   dread of war, 305
   a soldier, sent to fight a Bismarck, 305
   does he, or his Turkish confrères, really trust Lord Curzon, 306, 307
   left Constantinople with nothing, returned the head of the Army, 307
   no chance of a fair fight with mature British diplomats, 307, 308
   makes dangerous concession about Greek Patriarch, 309
   works into night, 309
   explains his point of view, 309-312
   advantages of being deaf for diplomacy, 309
   doing his best for peace, but cannot give up the Pact, 309, 310
   all agreements with us are held up as “great concessions,” 310
   we are offered “one room in our own house,” 310
   always met with distrust, 310
   chief obstacles to peace: Mosul, finance, judicial capitulations,
      reparations, 310
   we cannot betray Anatolia, 312
   toast of the British Empire and King George, 320
   reference to, 137, 183, 194, 199, 298-300, 306

 Italy, a bad example, 314

 Italian, a wise proverb, 29
   guide to Miss Ellison in Athens 36 _et seq._
   his inborn courtesy, 37
   like a Greek Patrician, 40
   sings “La Tosca,” 53
   the first at Smyrna; his advice, 67
   the second at Smyrna; his advice, 67
   the third at Smyrna; his advice, 68
   reference to, 61

 Izzet Pasha; his Cabinet, 193, 195


 Jaffa, 182

 “Jane Clegg,” acted by Sybil Thorndike, 28

 Japan, 58

 Jeanne d’Arc, story from her life, 180 _et seq._

 Jerusalem held sacred by Turks, 250

 Jews eager to replace Greeks, 161, 274, 275
   beginning to “make their profit” out of simple Turks, 275

 Johnson, Robert Underwood, formerly American Ambassador at Rome, 300

 Judea, 250

 Julius Cæsar, search for humour in, 124
   compared to M. Kemal, 161


 Kada-Keuey, 254

 _Kadinlar Dunyassi_, a paper for women, 209

 Kaiser, the, 118

 Kara-Kuey, 88

 Kara Kheuz, _i.e._, Punch-and-Judy show, at a wedding, 189

 Karahissar, centre of opium trade, 112

 Kassaba, terrible condition of, 75, 77, 102

 Kemallidine Pasha, General, 279
   learns the difference between an English lady and an English
      “temporary gentleman,” 280, 281

 Kemal Pasha, Mustapha; the victory of his “rebels,” 27
   when he “lifts his little finger,” 29
   not a “rebel,” 91
   seeks to free Islam from Byzantine heresies, 91
   great importance of his choosing the right type of wife, 92
   takes over house from Constantine, 94, 95
   an American interviewer says he smokes “Players,” 98
   women must take their place in life, 102
   wisdom to prohibit alcohol, 113
   inspired people with almost superstitious confidence, 128
   and “the miracle happened,” 129
   his “dancing” car, 137
   on French Revolution, 153, 181
   great civil organiser, 158
   requires no “guard,” 159
   his true greatness discussed, 159 _et seq._
   inspired by his mother’s suffering, 160
   difficulties with the Churches, 160
   lenient towards Greeks, 161
   hard-working and simple home-life, 161 _et seq._
   compared to Julius Cæsar, 161
   handsome and eloquent, 162, 163
   his home, his mother, his opinions, and his life, 163 _et seq._
   would be at home in any drawing-room, 164
   views on Napoleon, 165, 166
   secure in his people’s admiration, 167
   disapproves of word “Kemalist” for a “national” movement, 167
   not influenced by Bolshevists, 169
   more balanced than some of the Deputies, 169
   personality can dominate Assembly, 170
   might be author’s brother 170
   visit to peasants, 171, 172
   not easy to understand, 172
   an interview with, 174 _et seq._
     the “Assembly” is not one man, 174
   ultimate confidence in England, 174, 178
   hopes that the Conference will bring peace, 175
   sympathy with all Christians, 175, 176
   views of Constantinople and on freedom of the Straits, 176
   must have “national” frontiers, 176
   attitude towards minorities, 176, 177
   must refuse “privileged” on capitulations, 177
   not only soldier, but statesman, 178
   some account of his mother, 179
   facts of his life, 180 _et seq._
   disgusted by brutal methods of General Falkenhayn, 182
   appointed Inspector of the East or High Functionary of the Eastern
      Villayets, 182
   opinions and desire for reform of the harem, 185, 186
   his own choice of a wife, 189-191
   advocate of “sensible” dress for men and women, 185, 186
   wedding-presents to his bride, 189, 190
   educated in Rochester, 190
   will sweep away harem and other Byzantine heresies, 190, 191
   great faith in youth, 192
   his task will get harder as country settles to reconstruction, 200
   two hundred years ahead of some of his own Ministers, 200
   a “tribute” applied from an ancient inscription, 210
   supports the “Turc Odjagui,” 222, 223
   visits the “Mosque,” with other Deputies, 223
   against Byzantian heresies, 238
   concerned for Christian minorities, 238
   correspondence with the Pope, 243, 244
   regrets division between Christian Churches, 244, 245
   maintains that Turks have _always_ practised religious tolerance, 245
   a real democrat in practice, a reformer loyal to Islam; faith in full
      liberty and in his people, 270, 271
   driven to arms by Greek’s entry of Smyrna, 314
   reference to, 30, 45, 46, 66, 74, 93, 100, 108, 115, 117, 119, 120,
      125, 130, 134, 135, 149, 157, 195, 205, 207, 227, 232, 239, 308

 Kerr, Philip, private secretary to Lloyd George, 128

 Khadidja, poetess and public singer 190

 Khalif, the present, 182
   must guard the relics, 219
   hereditary; the Pope, elected, 249
   impressions of several Khalifs, 249, 250

 Khandeke, a Circassian tribe, 153

 Kiamil Pasha, Grand Vizier to Abdul Hamid, 23
   and his daughter, 23-25, 238
   his daughter spoken of as my Turkish sister, 120
   visits bazaar, 126
   her sister-in-law at Pera, 294, 295
   teased for growing more advanced but preferring the old ways, 297

 Kiazim Pasha, Minister of National Defence; his character, 199

 Kipling, Rudyard, his cat, 18

 Konia, chief city of Dancing Dervishes, 281

 Koran, “an accursed book?” 22,
   its precepts, 91
   written in Persian, 219
   misinterpreted by Hodjas, 230

 Krassine M., told of Turkish views on Soviet Government, 27

 Kutahia, a dinner-service from, 167

 Kurd, population of Mosul, 311

 Kurdistan, 234


 Lady of Paradise, Mahomet’s daughter, 190

 Lamartine, 220

 Lasz, the, the President’s guard, 163

 Latifée Hanoum, the Pasha’s future wife, 186
   educated at Chislehurst, 190

 Lausanne, authorities there know nothing of life in Angora, 125
   still talk of Turkey that is dead, 140, 160
   what can Nationalists do there, 147
   told the Assembly was corrupt, 157
   ignorance, 168
   views of the Delegates, 176
   results of Conference, 177, 178
   scorn for patriotism of the Turks, 184
   duel between Lord Curzon and Ismet Pasha, 197
   Halidé Hanoum elected Delegate, but too ill to go, 205
   receives Halidé Hanoum’s report of Greek atrocities, 212
   English Delegates’ foolish scorn of the Kurd, 234
   Conference must produce peace, 287
   both sides adopt the method of not listening, 290
   will they ever listen to a woman? 290
   under the flags of France, Turkey, and Japan, 298
   a gay and busy scene, 298
   hotel a babel from folk-songs of Anatolia to fox-trots and cocktails,
      299
   a host of “new” nationalities, all sighing for the (political) moon,
      299
   French Delegate bullied to bed, 299
   first word of a “new” and independent Turkey, 299
     can they ever understand? 299, 300
   always called Turkey to order, 300
   politics all day, 300
   luxury for the Press, 300
   weakness of journalists, 301-303
   more work done than at Genoa, 300
   fight out details and ignore important questions, and the Turkish
      point of view, 302
   wasteful methods of official diplomacy, 304
   the real problem of Lausanne, 305
   too many Commissions, 306
   haunted by memories of Angora, 306
   all watch Venizelos, the bird of ill-omen, 307
   the first woman diplomatist, 307
   British are not so pro-Russian as they have to appear, 308
   talks about the Greek Patriarch, 308, 309
   Conference will not see what National Pact means to Turkey, 309, 310
   everyone meets Turks with distrust, 310
   chief obstacles to peace: Mosul, finance, judicial capitulations,
      reparations, 310
   England and Turkey need each other, 312
   Lausanne has _not_ failed, 312
   may she learn from mistakes of Versailles, 319
   reference to, 159, 174, 186, 208, 223, 228, 272, 313, 317, 318, 320

 Law, Mr. Bonar, 141

 League of Nations must be impartial and international, 313 _et seq._
   unfortunately appears to be anti-Islam, 313
   by allowing Greeks to enter Smyrna it drove M. Kemal to arms, 314
   should consider the feelings of all nations, 314
   report on harems entrusted to Roumanian poetess, not to Halidé
      Hanoum, 314, 315
   listened to back-stair propaganda of American relief workers, 315
   its own Press department distrusts Greek and Armenian propaganda, but
      sympathises with the Turk, 315
   can only help Christians by putting a stop to pro-Christian
      propaganda, 316
   what a really international League could do for Turkey, 316, 317
   the only way is to put Turkey on Council of League, 317
   reference to, 105, 112, 299

 Lebouvier, M., Dutch _pasteur_, reports Greek atrocities, 26

 Lenin, theories opposed to the Turkish, 150, 159

 Life, a story from, 318

 _Literary Digest_ quoted, 76

 Lloyd George against Turks, 25
   his “indiscretions” towards Ambassadors for Angora, 27
   what Turkey owes to him, 32
   and “our dear Christian brethren,” 38
   hated by Greeks, 39
   confused with King George, 86
   is he not a democrat? 91
   his puzzling inconsistency, 92
   his policy not the policy of English people, 95
   and _Les Misérables_, 127
   why does this “democrat” hate Turks, 77, 128
   the fallen angel, or modern Nero, 141, 142
   says you must speak to Turks “with guns,” 169
   “that” Lloyd George, 237
   super-bogeyman of the Near East, 257, 258
   badly advised, 287
   his insults to Turkey not taken seriously, 314
   reference to, 78, 101, 108

 Loti, Pierre, his dream and interpretation of Turkey, 17 _et seq._
   his stories, 18
   his Melek and Zeyneb, 19
   his “Désenchantés,” 19
   steamer so-called, 17 _et seq._
   sympathy of her captain, 17 _et seq._
   and the Bazaar at Smyrna, 62
   his Green Mosque, 278, 279

 Lowther, Sir G., Ambassador at Constantinople, 24

 Ludendorff, 182

 Luggage-train, a painful journey, 89, 90

 Lycée for Girls described, 217


 MacClure, Mr., tells journalists what to say, 301-303

 Mahmoud Bey, smiling aide-de-camp of M. Kemal, 163

 Mahmoud Chefket Pasha, 182

 Mahmoud Essad Bey, Minister of Economics, studied in Switzerland, 199

 Mahmoud II., 289

 Mahomet, Prophet of Islam, 22
   and his daughter the “Lady of Paradise,” 190
   a story with a meaning, 230
   _See_ “Prophet of Islam”

 Mohammed V., anecdote of, 23

 Mallet, Sir Louis, Ambassador at Stamboul, 24

 Malta, the home of exiles from Turkey, 29 _et seq._
   as a prison, 31
   Nationalism for (?), 31
   Turks arrested and sent to, 31, 32
   anecdotes of its shopkeepers, 34 _et seq._
   means patriot, 44
   reference to, 36, 132, 144, 148, 155, 157, 193-195, 227, 273

 _Manchester Guardian_, unsound on Turkey, 231

 Mangal, or charcoal, stove; its dangers and discomforts, 257

 Manissa, first halt in Anatolia, 74, 77

 Marie, author’s “Catholic” maid in Angora; her ideas about hot bottles,
    134, 135

 Marienbad, tales of Royalty at, 129, 130

 Marriage and brides in Turkey, 187-191

 Mary, Princess, 249

 Masefield, John, memories of, at the Front, 208

 Mecca, visited by “Black” Sultan, 227
   _not_ honoured by Christians, 250, 253

 Mehmet Emin Bey, of Adalia, leading poet of the Nationalists, 222

 Melek, heroine of Pierre Loti, 19, 22 _et seq._

 Melle Stanciof, first woman diplomatist, very able, 307

 Mentone, 52

 Merry de Val, Cardinal, 252

 Mesopotamia, 116, 311

 Metaxatis, Monseigneur, a Cretan, once Metropolitan of Constantinople,
    as Metelios IV., 108

 Metelios IV., _see_ “Metaxatis”

 Midhat, whose son was the pioneer parliament-maker, 229

 Michelet, his “little Assembly,” 153

 Milne, 227

 Minaret, ascent of and impressions produced, 277

 Minorities can only secure protection by loyalty, 316

 Minorities Committee; their Norwegian head says Asiatics will never
    become Europeans, 316

 Missionaries and treacherous propaganda, 240

 Mihrinour and her husband in Rome, 251

 Moudania, the most depressing town in Anatolia, 283
   the historic house in which Peace was signed, 283
   reference to, 259, 273, 318

 Monsignor X. conducts author to Vatican, 242

 Mont Pegasus, ascent of, 62

 Morgenthau, Mr., an American who wants to make an ideal republic _á la_
    Tammany on the Bosphorus, 76
   says States are not disposed to lend, 178

 _Morning Post_ quoted on interview with M. Kemal, 177

 Moscow plans against India, 178

 Mosul, its future, 177
   never captured by British, but handed to them by the French, 310, 311
   population, Kurd and Turkish, 311
   admitted by Sykes-Picot agreement, was not part of Mesopotamia, 311
   reference to, 224, 306, 317

 “Mother in the Home, The,” an American tale translated by Halidé
    Hanoum, 207

 Mouche, 182

 Moudania Conference, 186, 197

 Mouedine Pasha, General, who “taught” M. Kemal and Fethi Bey, 125, 130
   his charming sons, 257, 258
   start dangerous race between two yailis, 266, 267

 Mougin, Colonel, earlier called the “French colonel”; his gallantry
    (?), 112
   friendship with, 114 _et seq._
   gives an excellent dinner on the train, 116, 117
   his role in Angora, 119
   his car very welcome, 127
   his hospitality in Angora, 132
   his Embassy, once the Station Hotel, 134
   persists in doubt, 147
   praise of Kemal’s army, 183, 225
   represents French interests with skill and tact, 203
   his awkward questions at dinner, 232
   always “informs” his Government, 232
   fears of responsibility for author’s life, 232
   says only Turks can really protect Christian minorities, 237, 238
   high praise of Refet Pasha, 288
   reference to, 121, 123, 126, 131, 133, 234, 246, 247

 Mouharrem, Persian ceremonial in memory of the martyr, Hussein, 250,
    251

 Mudros, the Armistice, 31
   treachery of, 182, 193, 194

 Mufidé Hanoum (Mme. Ferid Bey) second great woman-writer of “New”
    literature, 222

 Mussolini, M., visits Lausanne, 308


 Naim Bey, courteous hotel-keeper in Smyrna, 46
   his pity for “poor Americans,” 47, 53
   defies “law” for his guests, 48
   guests from all countries, 49, 52, 53

 Namik Kemal Bey, Turkish writer for the people, 220
   died in exile for his ideals, 220, 221

 Napoleon and M. Kemal, 165

 Nasreddin Hodja, Turkish wit, his stories from, 33, 34, 267

 National Pact discussed, 219-231
   of capitulations, 230
   a religion, copies in every home, 230, 231

 Nationalist appeal for the first time adopted by Moslems, 93

 Nationalist Literary Revival, brief history of, 218-223

 Nationalist Turkey, ix., 19
   result of Lloyd George’s policy, 32
   misunderstood by British official, 54
   a Nationalist meeting at Ouchak, 95 _et seq._
   the Pact contains nothing unreasonable, 97
   Nationalism, a religion, 125
   fight for freedom single-handed, 154
   what Nationalism means, 161
   compared to Christianity, 168
   National Pact, a new “decalogue,” 167
   natural enthusiasm for new Turkey facing reconstruction, 172, 173
   not the cat’s-paw of Bolshevism, 178
   will not allow herself to be used against British influence in India,
      178
   the “Constitution” proclaimed, 182
   founders need no advice from us, 201
   does not look to France for help, 203
   the pioneer worker, Halidé Hanoum, 207
   much literature has been already written about, 217, 218
   brief history of Nationalist Literary Revival, 218-223
   “Story of Nationalism,” by Hussein Raghib, how it grew out of the
      _Turc Odjagui_, a club founded to protest against “Union and
      Progress,” 222
   what was a “party” movement made National, 222
   the army described, 224, 225
   grows from 10,000 men to 400,000 men with 450 big guns, etc., 224
   actual statistics and character of staff, 225
   unwisely too proud to use propaganda, 226-228
   discussion of the National Pact, 229-231

   Nationalism, a religion, 230, 231
   the “Hymn of Independence,” 238
   will protect “loyal” minorities, 247
   wants peace, not surrender, 247
   her Constitution will _not_ “imitate” from England, 251
   Turks beginning to be _themselves_, 263
   still approached as we used to approach Abdul Hamid’s Turks, 304
   no offence to British prestige in the National Pact, 305
   their policy at Lausanne, 309-312
   cannot be curbed by neutral zones, 320
   must have honest peace, 320
   not dead, but born again, 320
   _See also_ “Turks”, “Turkey,” “Young Turks”,”

 Nansen, Dr., always talking of “Greek” suffering, 212, 213

 Naval man of the best type, but starched, 64
   his refusal to give up the flag, 65, 66
   off guard, 66

 Nazoum, Dr., head of Army Medical Service; his hospitals, 216, 279, 281

 Nelson, call to “Duty,” 64

 Neutrality, cannot satisfy a country’s pride, 298
   though in Switzerland it has “made history,” 299

 New York, 18, 49
   near hell, 19
   and sky-scrapers, 228

 Nicholson, Mr. Harold, British Delegate, 307, 309

 Nightingale, Florence, part of the treasures England has for mankind,
    118, 214

 Nihat Réchad, Dr., talk with his sister, 279

 Nonconformity, foe of the Turks, 78

 Noury, Mme., who cooks the dinner, 232

 Nourredine Pasha, 279
   his father-in-law, the Dervish, 281
   does _not_ hate England, 282

 “Nouveau Touron,” by Halidé Hanoum, 222


 Oeillet supplies cigarettes, 232

 Officer; the Turkish officer detailed to conduct author to Angora, 71
    _et seq._
   his helpfulness, 80, 88
   reference to, 105, 109, 119, 121

 Official dignity, its dangers in dealing with Young Turkey, 64, 65

 Official ignorance of Nationalist Turks, 54
   care for English women, 54 _et seq._

 Old maids, none in Turkey, 189

 Oriental landscapes, glorious colours, 145, 223
   music, its peculiar charm, 44, 45, 216, 217
   by a Christian choir, 236-238

 Orientals, broad-minded, 19
   the most criminal respect their mothers, 180
   our brothers, 59

 Osman, 140, 156
   his tomb, 278

 Osman Noury Bey, of the “Ottoman Bank,” 137, 138

 Osman Nyzami Pasha represents Constantinople in Rome, 250
   horror expressed at the Persian Mouharrem, 250, 251
   claim for Turkey to be judged by the gods she has created; finer than
      the Olympians or the Puritan Deity, 265

 Osmanli, 308

 Ottoman “Christian” property freed from sequestration, 313

 Ottoman Commission, 25

 Ottoman Empire, large slices relinquished, 176

 Ottoman Government, the old corrupt, 148

 Ottoman Greeks, Greece has no room for, 36

 Ottoman Society, 24

 Ouchak, hospitality of the governor, 93
   a public meeting at, 94 _et seq._
   reference to, 88, 102

 Oxford, on Greece 41
   forgets the immorality of Olympus, 265
   reference to, 71, 77


 Palestine, 116, 224

 Pan-Islam rising to be feared, 93

 Papas Eftim Effendi; his proposal about the Orthodox Church, 308

 Paris, 18, 157

 Parliaments before the Assembly, 229

 Parthenon, 63

 Patriarch, the Greek; his disloyalty, 108, 160, 161, 213
   discussed at Lausanne, 308, 309

 Pellé, General and Madame, invited author to Christmas lunch, 293

 Pera always disliked by author; always feels someone is going to stab
    her in the back, 294, 295
   reference to, 23

 Pericles, boast for his own epitaph, 39-41

 Peroxide and henna, less effective than a little hard work, 228

 Persia, 25, 59, 116

 Persian Ambassador, now left, 203

 Persian literature, its influence on the Turkish, 219

 Persians, 222

 _Pierre Loti_, the steamer, 34, 60

 Pirus, 36-38

 Pius X., portrait of, 242
   killed by strain of war, 244

 Pius XI., Pope, audience with, 239 _et seq._
   friendship for Anatolia, 239
   a father’s heart on Peter’s throne, 240
   debt to Turkey for tolerance and responsibility towards Christian
      peoples, 241
   interested in personality of the Pasha, 241, 243, 244
   speaks many languages, 242
   his robes and appearance, 243
   his deep yearning for peace, 244, 247
   messages to Christians, and Turks in Anatolia, 247

 Plato’s Republic and Bolshevism, 41, 52

 Poincaré, M., visits Lausanne, 308

 Pompeii, and how its houses were warmed, 226

 Pope, elected; the Khalif, hereditary, 249

 Power of the Press, a farce, 301

 Price, Ward, will not ask for interview, 301

 Prince Said Halim, late Grand Vizier, 35

 Prophet of Islam, the; his wedding-presents to his bride, 189

 Prussianism in England, 284


 Rauf Bey, Prime Minister without portfolio, 192
   his life, character, and opinions, 193-195
   admired by England, 194, 195
   reforms in education, 194, 195
   says Turkey wants to please Christians, 245
   reference to, 29, 35, 132, 133, 197

 Réchad, Dr., on evening-dress, 33

 Red Cross should work with Red Crescent, 264

 “Red” Sultan, the, 227

 Refet Pasha, well-deserved praise from General Harrington, 286-288
   also from Colonel Mougin, 288
   speaks warmly of Colonel and Mrs. Samson, 288
   did much pioneer work, 288
   praise of English, 289
   soldiers do _not_ love war, 289
   praise of the Khalif, 289
   commanding in the south, 224

 Regent’s Park, animals in, are fed like journalists, 301

 Religion, a living force in the East, 106

 Reparations, only asking four milliard gold francs, 310

 Revolution, the, 23

 Rhadyah, woman traveller and lecturer, 190

 Rhodes, 100

 Rhondda Valley compared with Angora, 132

 Riza Nour, not really insolent, 302
   no wonder he is impatient with wasteful methods of official
      diplomacy, 304
   reference to, 299, 305

 Rochefort and Pierre Loti, 18

 Rochester, where author went to school, 190

 Roget, his “Thesaurus” and a harem, 26

 “Rose in the Bud,” tune to which a Turkish poem “goes perfectly,” 208,
    209

 Rosebery, Lord, 165

 Roufy Bey, Mme., at the hospital in Broussa, 282

 Roumanian poetess sent to report on harems, 314

 Roumelia, 153, 164, 199

 Ruchène Echref, Mme., and her husband, neighbours of M. Kemal, tell of
    his future wife, 186

 Russia must not be sacrificed? 24
   the destitute aristocracy, 30
   reference to, 67, 90, 152, 162, 169, 203, 306

 Russian Christians, 245


 Sakharia, extreme point reached by Greeks, 130
   and Austerlitz, 166
   fifteen days’ Battle of, 183, 199

 Salihli, town of four houses, 77

 Salonika is _not_ the gate of Christendom, 93, 195

 Samsoun, 183

 San Remo, 52

 Sarojini Naidu, a poem by, quoted in full, 208, 209

 Savoy, the, 32

 Schinassi Effendi studies culture in France, 220
   re-models Turkish language, 220, 221

 Scotch calmness hides feeling, 54

 Sea of Marmora, 176

 Sefa Bey, Minister of Education, 198

 Seldjoucide, 140, 308

 Selim, first keeper of the Holy Relics, 219

 _Senegal_, H.M.S., blown to pieces by mine, 65

 Senegali, 114

 Sèvres, Treaty of, and why Turkey signed, 26
   French repentance, 204
   reference to, 128

 Seyed Hussein of the Khaliphat Delegation insolently snubbed by
    quotation from Lord Bryce, 262, 263

 Shakespeare, his humour, 124
   quoted, 301

 Silver threads for good luck, 188

 Sloane Square Station, a meeting outside, 220

 Smyrna, crime of sending Greeks to, x
   occupied, 26, 31
   impressions of, 43 _et seq._
   its hotels, 46 _et seq._
   no longer the alien’s paradise, 51
   the quay, 54, 63
   among the ruins of, 60 _et seq._
   remains of Frank Street, 62
   details of fire, 62 _et seq._
   anecdote of the Custom House, 64, 65
   last words from, 67-70
   certainly _not_ burnt by Turks, 212
   has charm of Sodom and Gomorrah, 226
   reference to, 86, 88, 102, 115, 121, 123, 132, 139, 153, 194, 224,
      274, 313

 Socrates, 41

 Sœur Julie, 95

 Sofia, 181, 182, 195

 Sophocles, 41

 Sons of Palestine at Lausanne, 299

 South American, the, one of guests at hotel in Smyrna, 48, 52,
   final advice and effort, 68, 69

 Soviet helpful to Turkey, 90
   Embassy and Camerad Areloff, 202

 Spaniard at Smyrna; his advice, 67

 Spartelli Library in Smyrna, 53

 St. Sophia, Church of, cannot be restored to any _one_ sect of
    Christians, 244, 245

 Stamboul, 24, 206

 Stan-Harding, Mrs., on the “best people” in Russia, 35

 Stars and Stripes, not the Union Jack, 34

 Steeg, M. Louis, says the author “will never die,” 232
   Governor-General of Ottoman Bank, 238

 “Story of Nationalism,” by Hussein Raghib, 222

 Suffragettes chained to grille at Westminster, 249, 250

 Suliman, the Magnificent, 219

 Sultan Ahmed Khan, Ambassador from Afghanistan, difficult relations,
    202, 203

 Sultan Mahmoud, 219

 Sunset reveals God’s world in contrast to man’s, 62

 Syrenaique, 182

 Syria, 114, 115, 182, 211, 294, 318

 Syrians at Lausanne, 299

 Sykes-Picot agreement on Mesopotamia, 311


 Tagore, a delight to talk with, 59

 Taine, M. Henri, on the English quoted, 214

 Talaat Pasha, 208, 209

 _Tanine_, newspaper of Angora, 142, 208

 Tchan-Kaya, home of M. Kemal, a few miles out of Angora, 163, 186, 197

 Tcharhaff, Turkish head-dress, 31

 Teheran, 62, 125, 130

 Tewfik Rushi Bey says “easy divorce” makes happy marriages, 187
   his copy of the Pact, 230, 231, 305

 “Thesaurus,” by Roget, and a harem, 26

 Thorndike, Sybil, in “Jane Clegg,” 28

 Thrace, her boundaries, 177
   tackled by Rafet Pasha, 288, 309

 Timbuctoo, 18

 _Times_, the, suppresses reports of Greek atrocities, 26

 Timourlin, his mountain-tomb, 140

 Timur, his ideas of pleasure, 33

 Tokatlian’s Hotel in Constantinople, 285

 Tokatlian’s Restaurant, 267

 Town-planning unknown in Turkey, 62

 Townshend, General, and the Armistice, 193

 Tunnel, a journey through, 86

 _Turc Odjagui_, a club founded to protest against “Union and Progress,”
    from which sprang Nationalism, 222

 Turkey, meaning of word to different peoples, 20
   devotion to England, 23, 24
   the “philosophy” of her people, 33, 34
   few Turks now speak English, 43
   the “dead” Turkey still talked of in Lausanne, 140
   here beginneth the New Turkey democrat of democracies, 140
   English trade unionism not wanted, 157
   birth of New Turkey, 160 _et seq._
   risks of friendship with, 25
   crushed and humiliated at Sèvres, 26
   her real crime is to have kept Constantinople, 31
   gives fair exchange, 36
   no idea of town-planning, 62
   an “enemy” country of dear friends, 70
   strike her and all Islam will rise, 93
   social antipodes of England, 100
   desire to join Opium Convention, 112
   must have national frontiers, 176
   must have her place in future of civilisation, 177
   harem life and tales of weddings, 184-191
   the absentee bridegroom, 188
   no “old maids,” 189
   the famous women of, 190
   use and abuse of foreign schools, 195
   great change in conditions of life, 199, 200
   Europe cannot grasp meaning of Turkish civilisation, 206
   notes on early literature, 219, 220
   abstract character of Turkish love-poetry, 219
   true head of Islam, 239
   can we trust the West? 240
   insulted by Christendom, 240
   her many services to the Vatican, 241
   learnt French culture from Jesuit fathers, 241
   Allah compared with Jehovah, 265
   justice does _not_ depend on cash, 269, 270
   the “Commandments” have no mystery, 270
   real democracy, because Head of State is elected by, and responsible
      to, the people, 270
   non-progressive centuries due to influence of Hodjas, 271
   the Islamic atmosphere of Broussa, 276 _et seq._
   Mosques always open for prayer, in contrast to cathedral at Geneva,
      278, 279
   her heart and spirit is now in Angora, 295, 296
   her first appearance in “big” diplomacy, 299
   charged with arrogance at Lausanne, 300
   complains that her point of view is ignored, 302
   still treated at Lausanne like old Turkey, 304
   tolerance may be weakness, 308, 309
   has given three years proof of power to organise, 310
   and the League of Nations, 313 _et seq._
   never interfered with British property during the war, but we have
      confiscated her property, 313
   hope for the future, 318-320
   badly beaten but secured victory over Greeks, 319

 Turkish courtesy has its inconvenience, 88
   religion contrary to Bolshevism, 90
   food simple, but too fattening, 95, 113
   Anglo-Turkish alliance means peace for the world, 312
   sister, _see_ “Kiamil Pasha”

 “Turkish Woman’s Impressions in Europe,” 124

 Turks can only be dealt with by complete trust, 56, 66, 69, 72
   always respect women, 57
   anecdote of their tenderness to all animals, 60, 61
   anecdote of rather inconvenient faith in Allah, 61
   anecdote of their proverbial carelessness about official details, 65
   moderation in revenge, 74, 75
   daily prayer, 83
   kindness to enemy people, 84
   their soldiers, 84
   will not take money, 84
   need very little food, 86
   their high code of honour, 86
   further example of their philosophy, 86
   fearless riders, 88
   every man equal before the law, 91
   tolerance of all religions, 92, 175, 176
   danger of our calling them “niggers” or “natives” in Egypt, 92, 93
   no longer trust the West, 92
   tale of a woman patriot, 99
   bought arms from England and other countries, 102
   their almost embarrassing courtesy, 138, 142, 143
   want an Asiatic capital, 149
   their democracy not Socialism, 149, 150
   all desire peace, but cannot accept humiliation, 175
   if they appear arrogant _are_ moderate, 184
   illustrations of democracy at weddings, 188, 189
   important to teach Nationalism to children, 194, 195
   an extreme example of fine hospitality, 103
   fit because they don’t drink, 113
   beginning to lose faith in British honour, 116
   their new sense of confidence as citizens of a Free State, 118, 119
   dislike Germans, 125
   their almost embarrassing courtesy, 138, 139
   always merciful to their beasts, 139, 171
   a brilliant woman medical student, 211
   friendly rivalry with Christians in schools, 217
   system of education too exact a copy of the French, 218
   let us blazon their hospitality, 228
   their energy produces more blonde women, 228
   the only race who can really protect Christian minorities, 237, 238
   always tolerant alike to Catholics and Jews, 241, 245
   honour the Christian prophets and hold Jerusalem a sacred city, 250
   claim that they would guard Jerusalem and the Holy Tomb more
      reverently than the Jews, 252, 253
   their friendship depends on the personal element, 260
   not stubborn or unreasonable, 262
   anecdote of offensive arrogance from a judge towards a Turk, 262, 263
   spoilt by flattery in Europe and a taste of Western luxury, 264
   should keep their religion and their civilisation, 264, 265
   deep respect for maternity, 266
   resignation tends to stagnate, 266
   clean bodies, if dirty clothes and houses, 269
   the Koran will not permit us to drown kittens, 269
   Asia will not deny justice to Turks, 294, 295
   asked to exempt Christians from military service, 310
   offered back “one room in their own house” as a great “concession,”
      310
   a proud race who cannot forget even what they forgive, 314
   sympathy from Press Department of the League, 315
   foolishly too proud to use propaganda or answer their detractors, 316
   refuse to support their claims by statistics, 316
   will never become European, 316
   hope they will trust the imperfect League, 317
   must have Constantinople, 320
   _See_ “Young Turks”

 Turner and Pierre Loti, 20
   could not paint Eastern sunset, 297

 Trécroupis, General; his captivity at Eski-Chéir, 108
   surrendered to Turkish lieutenant, 129
   his revolver as a wedding-present, 180

 Tripolitain War, 182

 Trotsky, theories and ideas opposed to the Turkish, 150

 Tyrell, Sir Wm., “Chief of the
 Underlings,” Irish Head of
 British Foreign Office, 307


 Union Jack sought in vain, 34 _et seq._, 39, 65, 66
   last sight of, 69


 Vakit, newspaper of Angora, 142

 Valetta, in Malta, 31

 “Vanity Fair,” 30

 Vatican ceremonials and library, 240-242

 Vely Nedjdat Bey, author’s guide in Angora, 35, 215

 Venizelos, his magic name, 27
   his responsibility, 77
   his character, 107, 108
   bird of ill-omen, 307
   reference to, 39, 40, 42, 95

 Versailles, a lesson for Lausanne, 319
   which of the Big Four faced _real_ problems, 319
   their pestilent neutrality and government by committees, 319

 Von Bieberstein, Baron Marshall, rebuked by Joseph Choate, 301, 302


 War means—“and he never returned,” 20
   has not yet come, 55

 Waterloo, 30

 Wells, H. G., on our love for those we have wronged, 35

 Westminster, 21

 Whahid Eddin, called the Khalif, 219

 Wilson, General, a fine officer, 286

 Wilson, President; his ideals derided, 91, 162, 262

 Wintringham, Mrs.; effect on other women of her presence in Parliament,
    291

 Women may be protected away from their duty, 29 _et seq._
   and cows, 29
   a great nuisance when they are brave, 54 _et seq._
   at a grave disadvantage as journalists, 58
   their seclusion comes from Byzantium, not from the Koran, 92
   they “count” in the East;
   their progress compared with the same in England, 92, 205
   leave much housework to men, 100
   work in the war, 102
   must remain anonymous, 111
   Turkish women on English ballrooms, 111
   never recognised by Government or by the Press, 115, 116
   not now confined to harem by advanced Turks, 138
   their freedom imperfect in England, 147
   their real freedom desired by the enlightened, 157
   the author and M. Kemal discuss the harem, 184-186
   lectures and friendships and weddings, 187-191
   women’s progress in Turkey started on right lines, 185
   should not compete, but co-operate, with men, 185
   their ways in Turkey, 189
   harem in a Byzantine heresy, 190
   famous Turkish women who spoke or sang in public, 190
   gained much from American colleges, 204
   their freedom a burning question in Turkey, 209
   their legal status, 209, 210
   excellent women’s papers, 209
   carried forward one hundred years by work for the Red Crescent in the
      Balkan Wars, 210
   may probably retain the veil for its Nationalist significance, 210
   brilliant students, 211
   only a few feminine “stars” at present, 211
   visit to a Lycée for Girls, 216, 217
   their schools and the University in Constantinople, 217
   Soubhi, an eloquent opponent of the harem, 233, 234
   manifold injustice at the hands of the Puritans, who dare to scorn
      the unmarried mother, 265, 266
   all Turks respect maternity, 266
   their “unskilled” labour expensive, 275
   never listened to by statesmen, 290
   no place in Embassies, 291
   more respected by French statesmen than English, 291
   their unpaid and unrecognised service is gratefully received, 292
   men more “natural” with Frenchwomen than English, 292, 293


 Yahia Kemal, a poet who might do even finer work, 222

 Yaili, or native carriage, dangerous driving, 254 _et seq._

 Yemen, exiles to, 23

 _Yeni Gun_, newspaper in Angora 143

 Younous Nadi Bey, who “ought to be shot,” editor of _Yeni Gun_, 143
   a visit to his office and printing works, 144
   his varying news of Lausanne, 147

 Young Turks not to blame for joining Germany, 25
   do not understand official diplomacy, 64, 65
   tremendous energy of the young nation-makers, 147
   universal admiration for Halidé Hanoum, 208
   hard work in “deposing” Sultans, 227

 Youssouf Kemal Bey, Ambassador from Angora, 27

 Youssouff Zeddine, Prince, listens to stories of England, 249, 250
   his courage and his suicide, 250


 Zakaroff, his gold, 42

 Zeyneb, (i), beautiful lady-professor at Bagdad, 190

 Zeyneb (ii), heroine of Pierre Loti, 19, 22 _et seq._

 Zeyneb (iii), says no fear of theft at weddings in Turkey, 188
   views on England and Russia, 220, 221
   modest about using her own language, 233
   on Moslem Commandments, 270

 Zia Bey, chief of Police in Smyrna, 46
   his novels and his business methods, 46, 47

 Zia Guenk Alp, Professor of Sociology, immense influence on “New”
    literature, 221, 222



      PRINTED BY THE ANCHOR PRESS, LTD., TIPTREE, ESSEX, ENGLAND.



------------------------------------------------------------------------



 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ In the List of Illustrations, the illustration “Burnt Quarter in
      the…” shows it facing page 48. It actually is page 240. Clicking
      on the link will take you to the correct place.
    ○ The illustration that is shown as facing page 64 (“Turkey for the
      Turks, indeed!” was not included in this edition of the book.
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).





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